


Lost in the Echo VII

by flamethrower



Series: Re-Entry: Journey of the Whills [47]
Category: Star Wars - All Media Types, Star Wars Episode I: The Phantom Menace
Genre: Alternate Universe, Creepy Sith, F/F, F/M, GFY, M/M, Sith Obi-Wan, Time Travel, Weird Jedi Shit
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-10-02
Updated: 2015-10-02
Packaged: 2018-04-24 10:38:29
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 27,073
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4916293
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/flamethrower/pseuds/flamethrower
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Tamoeth expected great things from his prisoner.  Sidious, Void take him, had waxed too long, too eloquently, about Venge’s potential.  If Tamoeth’s Master were still alive, there was no doubt in his mind that Sidious would have flung his cherished Adepts out into deep space just to have the half-made Sith all to himself.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Lost in the Echo VII

**Author's Note:**

> I've been kind of busy falling apart and realizing that if I didn't adjust certain expectations, I was going to wind up hospitalized, so this chapter got more of a delay than I wanted. Sorry about that, guys.
> 
> Beta credit to Norcumi and eventually MerryAmelie; JabberwockyPie credited for doing a proper read-through and screaming a lot.
> 
> Mind the warning above about graphic content. Most of it is technically off-screen, but there are some not-nice things ahead.

Imperial Year 27: 2/4th

Imperial Outpost J6-2279-001

 

Naasade watched as the woman in uniform approached. She wasn’t wearing olive drab or gray, but a brilliant red—the same shade of red worn by the dead Emperor’s Royal Guard. She had an unpleasant set to her mouth, and kept her dark hair clipped at the shoulders. The white stripe was distinctive, as were her mismatched eyes.

For a minute, he had to weigh the pros and cons. Saving the Jedi, or assassinating the current leader of the Empire?

He glanced at the Adepts. Not worth taking the chance. He probably wouldn’t have succeeded, anyway.

 _Your job is not about stupid heroics,_ his General had said, a long damned time ago. _Your job is to be in the right place, at the right moment, to be the most effective at your task._

 _Oh, yeah? Then what’s your excuse?_ he’d asked.

 _My job_ is _stupid heroics._

Ysanne Isard came to a halt in front of Tiritha and crossed her arms. “I came a very long way from Imperial Center to meet you on an outpost in the back of beyond. You said you would have something for me by the time I arrived, and it had better be worthy of my attention. What is it?”

Tiritha did not bow or acknowledge Isard’s rank. “Our prisoner,” she said, and nudged her tank of a fellow Adept aside to reveal the unconscious man on the floating stretcher. His skin was still pale from what had to have been a significant amount of blood loss, given the red staining of hand and shirt sleeve, but the medic in Naasade’s company had already reported no visible signs of injury.

The Jedi’s clothes could be found on a lot of different worlds. He didn’t look that much different from any other civvie, as long as you didn’t know there was supposed to be a lightsaber on his belt.

“I see.” Isard used a gloved hand to draw back the Jedi’s hair, revealing the neural patch on his temple. Naasade had heard of them, but had never seen them used—too risky, too expensive. Stun cuffs were cheaper, and usually just as effective as a patch that prevented the brain from signaling the body to wake up.

He’d kind of hoped that the neural patches would prove ineffective on Jedi, but no such luck. The readout on the flat tab registered the vivid blue of deep sleep.

Isard drew her hand back as her mouth settled even further into a grim, displeased line. “While the hair color of your prisoner is indeed the correct shade of red, I would like to remind you both that Mara Jade is, in fact, a woman.”

“Despite my brother’s handicap and my lack of interest, we are capable of correctly determining gender, Director,” Tiritha said. She looked at her brother with a delighted smile. “She does not know who he is. Interesting.”

“Enlighten me,” Isard said in a flat voice.

“This is one of our Master’s pet projects.” Naasade’s grip tightened on his rifle as Tiritha stroked the hair back from the Jedi’s forehead in a display of mock-tenderness. “Aren’t you, Lord Venge?”

Sith title and name. Not auspicious, but he could fucking well read a situation. The Jedi had been with the rebels on Lothal, not against them.

He was _definitely_ not here as a guest.

“An apprentice?” Isard grimaced. “While I appreciate the due diligence of the Emperor’s chosen, the Emperor’s last apprentice did us a grave disservice.”

“You misunderstand, Director.” Tiritha’s smile was not getting any more pleasant with repeated viewings. “This was an unfinished project. If you allow us to take him to our brother, and for us to perform our work unhindered, we could present you with a valuable weapon—one capable of restoring the Empire to its true glory.”

“Weapons can easily be turned and pointed back in the other direction,” Isard said, but she looked intrigued. “Vader was such a weapon, after all.”

“Vader was little more than a leashed attack dog,” Tiritha said scathingly. “We can ensure that there will never be a need for a leash in the first place.”

Isard’s eyes were taking in the Jedi’s appearance again, and her brow furrowed. “This is Obi-Wan Kenobi.”

Tiritha smirked. “Oh. Now you recognize him.”

Isard gave the Adept a look of utter disdain. “You do not mean to tell me that one of the premiere Jedi Masters of the Republic—one who is supposed to have been executed by Vader—willingly joined our Emperor?”

“Of course not.” The glow of the Adept’s eyes increased. “As I said, Director: This is an unfinished project.”

Isard laced her hands behind her back. “Very well. You have the Empire’s blessing, but I expect regular status reports. You will keep me updated on your progress, or you will discover why I am considered more terrifying than Tarkin _and_ Vader.”

“Of course, Director,” Tiritha replied. The other Adept grunted, which was apparently the big fucker’s entire vocabulary.

“What of the situation on Lothal itself? Is it resolved?” Isard asked.

Some of the Adept’s delight vanished, but not all of it. “Lothal is fallen, Director.”

“I see.” Isard seemed resigned to the loss. “Equipment and personnel?”

“There is a report that one destroyer escaped the system, but the other ten destroyers from the original blockade are in the hands of the rebels. Commander Eross mutinied against the Colonel, so one should be wary if he were to turn up in the ranks again.” Tiritha paused. “Not all was lost, though. I conscripted a commander from Colonel Druhl’s ship the day before the battle. Commander Naasade was Eross’s replacement. We’ll be retaining use of him and his company—with your blessing, of course.”

Naasade came to attention when Isard looked in his direction. “Director.”

“Commander.” Isard’s eyes did their best to try and bore through his helmet. “And what reassurance do I have that you will not also mutiny against your commanding officers, Adept or otherwise?”

His handler wasn’t the only one who could pull off good timing. He’d been debating how to deal with the situation if it ever became an issue, and he couldn’t have been handed a better opportunity.

Naasade shouldered his rifle, pulled his helmet, and tucked it under his arm. “I don’t think I could give you much more reassurance than this, Director Isard.”

Isard’s eyes widened briefly in surprise before her cold stare resumed. “I was not aware that any of…your kind…were still alive.”

It was long years of practice that kept him from twitching at the insult. Fucking hells, even Vader hadn’t been that bigoted. “Not many of us left, especially not in the Corps.”

Isard glanced at Kenobi. “And this Jedi will not prove to be a temptation, given your history?”

Naasade let out a derisive snort. “Killing Jedi’s what we do, Director.”

Isard’s smile could have cut glass with utter precision. “Lady Tiritha, when you tire of the commander’s presence, do not break him. Send him to me. I have use for those who remember the true principles upon which the Empire was founded.”

Tiritha looked like she was on the verge of a sulk, or a massive fit, but she tamed it well enough. “Of course, Director.”

Naasade slapped his helmet back onto his head before his mouth could twist in distaste. There were no circumstances in existence in which he wanted to owe Ysanne Isard a life-debt.

Isard gave the Jedi one final look, and then her gaze swept the room. “Do not fail me. The Empire cannot afford it, and I will not forgive it.”

 

Imperial Year 27: 2/4th

Alliance-observed Old Republic Date 5239

Lothal

 

Getting to the Academy garrison should have been easy, but then Geffes informed them that all of the speeder bikes left at the coastline had been stolen.

“Seriously? All of them?” Hival asked, while Wolffe glared at three hunkered-down officers who had yet to be escorted to their new detention cell lodgings.

“Looks like it. I think some of the Imps decided they wanted to get the hell out,” Geffes said.

“Yes, but— _our_ bikes?” Turkey stressed. “The clunkers that run because Black speaks nicely to them?”

“They’d have the Empire after them for desertion _and_ theft, if they’d taken something from the base,” Rex said, trying not to twitch in place. He was not handling this well. Not a damned repeat of Sixty-Six. Not after all the utter shit they’d gone through over the last twenty-six years since the original Order from Sidious had gone down.

“Theft,” Jade repeated, rubbing at her temple. “That is a fabulous idea.”

Hival’s head went up, eyes wide, as if the idea had just occurred to him. “Right, well. Everything in this garrison is now ours, isn’t it? Turkey and I will take care of things here. You lot steal something nice so you can go find out what happened to Ben.”

The garrison’s small hangar bay netted them three Imperial shuttles. They were older makes, but had clean lines and didn’t look to be shedding parts on the floor.

“Take the one closest to the exit, the _Spinel_ ,” a mechanic in grease-stained coveralls told them. He was smoking while under guard from one of the Lothal kids, neither of whom looked all that concerned about the situation. “I just fueled her up, and she had the most recent maintenance check.”

“Why are you being so helpful?” Wolffe asked, while Jade gave the shuttle a suspicious once-over.

The mechanic shrugged. “I’ve been captured,” he said in a dry voice. “That means I’m getting hazard pay from now until I either ship out with the rest of the men who don’t want to stay, or until I decide to quit the Empire’s service.”

“He’ll be putting off that decision as long as possible,” the Lothal kid said, grinning. “Gotta drain those coffers dry.”

“Got it.” Rex followed his brother and Jade up the shuttle’s ramp. Jade wasted no time in sitting down at the pilot’s control station, bringing up preflight readouts to reveal that the mechanic hadn’t been lying about the shuttle’s condition.

“Will you be good to fly?” Wolffe asked Mara.

Jade glanced up at him, eyes narrowed in irritation. “It’s one of the simplest crafts to pilot in the entire Imperial Fleet.”

“Not what I meant.” Wolffe pointed to his temple. “I was worried about that stun headache of yours.”

Rex watched, intrigued, as Jade’s expression froze, then ran an interesting, badly suppressed gamut of baffled, afraid, annoyed, and uncomfortable. “I—yes. It’s not that bad. Thank you for…for your concern.”

“No problem. You want me to babysit from the co-pilot’s side, or are you good on your own, Jade?”

Jade frowned, giving the question due consideration. “I’ll be fine. The two of you should strap in, though. Once I get clear, I’m leaving the throttle open until we get back to Academy.”

“Noted.” Rex stowed his rifle and helmet in the overhead compartment and sat down. Wolffe did the same, though when he sat next to Rex he still had a smaller hold-out blaster in his hand.

“Just in case trouble tries to rush us from the ground when we get there,” Wolffe muttered, and then leaned in close to Rex. “I want to track down whoever raised that girl, and make them regret their entire existence.”

Rex nodded his agreement. Mara Jade was an extremely competent fighter and aspiring Jedi apprentice, but she had weird blind spots, and they all revolved around the basic kindnesses she received from other sentients. “I get the feeling this is the improved version,” he murmured back.

Wolffe sighed. “Yeah. I just want to spear people who’d raise a kid that way.”

“Well, you already speared yourself a Sith Adept. Congratulations, by the way.”

“Lost my best knife to that mess, too,” Wolffe grumbled, and then leaned forward to rest his face in his hands. “Fuck, Rex. How are you doing?”

“Not ready for this, Wolffe. I wasn’t ready for another Sixty-Six,” Rex swallowed. “It’s like we weren’t where we needed to be, all over again.”

Wolffe reached out and patted the vambrace on Rex’s arm without looking up. “We were where Kenobi asked us to be. It probably saved her life, and I’m not writing your crazy General off until we know what the hell’s going on in the Academy Garrison.”

“No. I’m not either,” Rex said, but he knew Obi-Wan was in deep shit. He’d always known when one of his generals was in real distress, and he was certain of it now.

They could see the port’s skyline when Wolffe got talkative again. “Is it just me, or does Jade look a hell of a lot like Kenobi?” he asked in a low voice.

Rex smiled. “Not just you. I was thinking about it the morning after we met the Lothal group.”

“Family, maybe?” Wolffe theorized. “Or—hey, kids aren’t outside the realm of possibility. The age gap is right if you go by Kenobi’s actual age.”

“Nah, can’t be,” Rex said, wincing as there was a jolt of atmospheric turbulence along the shuttle’s bottom. “Kenobi was born sterile.”

Wolffe gave him a startled look. “How in the hell do things like that come up in conversation?”

“You’d be surprised by the strange things you wind up talking about when you’re both stuck in a slave pen for several days.” Rex stood up, caught the edge of the overhead compartment to ride out the next bounce, and then retrieved both rifle and helmet.

Wolffe shook his head. “You got into some of the weirdest shit, you know that, right?”

Jade ignored what looked to be an impromptu landing area out in the field and flew right into the city, landing the shuttle in front of the garrison’s main entrance. “They’re waiting to meet us,” she said.

Rex noted Tano and the Spectres standing together, with the Lothal clustered in their own group only a few steps distant. Nobody looked happy; Tano looked shell-shocked.

“Something else happened,” Wolffe muttered. Jade touched the lightsaber at her belt, but her hand came to rest on her pistol instead.

The moment they joined the Spectres, Jarrus said, “Skywalker is here.”

“What, the kid?” Rex asked. That was odd damned timing.

“No.” Jarrus grimaced. “The _other_ Skywalker.”

Everything in Rex’s gut tried to twist itself into a knot. Jade’s expression went ice cold.

“You are fucking kidding me,” Wolffe said.

Rex glanced at Tano. “Commander? What did we just walk into?”

Ahsoka hesitated. “I think it’s better if we show you.”

 _Fuck,_ Rex thought in resignation. “Lead the way.”

It was a short trip, which was unfortunate. If Rex hadn’t wanted to see a repeat of Sixty-Six, then he honestly wanted a confrontation with his former C.O. even less.

Ahsoka was visibly uncomfortable, her right hand constantly massaging her left arm. The Spectres were angry, but they were also baffled, which made no sense until Rex saw the man in question.

Anakin Skywalker didn’t look like a Jedi, not when he was wearing steel-grey shirt and trousers that might have been borrowed from a non-com mechanic. He still stood like one, though—that singular element of body language that had always made any Jedi obvious to Rex’s eyes, even when they were trying desperately to blend in. The lightsaber at his belt cinched it, intimately familiar when Kenobi’s leather-wrapped hilt had not been. He was surrounded by a cluster of gray-skinned sentients. They were heavily muscled beings, averaging about a meter and a half tall, and seemed to be composed mostly of teeth and claws. Skywalker was listening to one of them speak with laser-like focus, that unstoppable intensity he’d worn through most of the war.

He was also no older than twenty-five Standard. Just like Obi-Wan.

“We really overlooked the obvious on that one, didn’t we?” That was not a man who’d burned on Mustafar, or who had died on a Death Star.

Ahsoka managed a weak smile. “I think not dying sounded a lot more credible than magically reincarnated.”

“All of the terminals are on lockdown?” Skywalker said in response to whatever Teeth-And-Claws had been saying. He even sounded exactly the same, which was nostalgic as well as fucking nerve-wracking.

The shortest gray sentient was apparently the one in charge. Rex guessed male, or at least something close to it. “Yes, _ary’ush_ ,” he said, switching to Basic. “None of our proper codes will unlock the system.”

“Fuck.” Skywalker ran his hand through his hair. It was the same damned bionic, even, but without the leather wrapping. The black and gold was unmistakable. “No, they wouldn’t, not if it’s a hard lockdown.”

“What do you wish us to do?”

“I don’t know,” Skywalker said to them, and then turned his head to look directly at Rex.

Rex held his breath; Skywalker’s eyes went wide in what seemed like genuine shock. “Rex,” he whispered.

“Skywalker.” Rex swallowed. What the hell did you say to someone who tried to bury you with a building?

Wolffe’s hand came down on Rex’s shoulder. “Up to you, brother,” he murmured. “However you want it to play out, I’ll follow your lead.”

Rex tried to come up with something profound, but what finally emerged was angry indignance and brutal honesty. “You tried to fucking bury me with a building!”

Skywalker looked baffled for a moment, and then his eyes narrowed. “Balconies aren’t buildings!” he shot back.

“Oh, I’m so fucking sorry,” Rex growled. “I guess I was too busy being crushed by _part_ of a building.”

“Did everyone in the 501st communicate by shouting at each other?” Wolffe asked Ahsoka.

She shrugged. “Most of the time.”

Skywalker’s face worked with emotions Rex couldn’t put names to. “Chair,” he said at last, which made no damned sense.

“What the fuck do chairs have to do with anything?” Rex yelled.

Skywalker took a breath that was hallmark Jedi as he calmed himself. “You think it was just blind luck that a chair made of _ironwood_ landed over your head?”

That took a moment to sink in. “What?”

“A chair. Made of ironwood. Supporting several hundred kilos of rubble,” Skywalker said patiently. “It was the best I could do.”

“Best you could do?” Rex repeated, incensed. “My brothers were lined up for execution by firing squad—that was the best you could fucking do? _They were kids, Skywalker!”_

Skywalker lowered his gaze, a muscle in his jaw working. “I’m sorry,” he said in a quiet voice. “It wasn’t…Vader wasn’t really open to suggestions.”

“Suggestions?” Ahsoka asked, tentative, while Rex struggled to decide whether or not he was going to shoot his fucking General.

“It’s really hard to pilot a crazy person.” Vader might have gloated, but Skywalker just looked like he regretted his existence.

Fuck. It was hard to shoot someone who would probably help you aim.

“Who the hell _are_ you?” Grey asked, confused.

Skywalker smiled and held out his left hand to her, which she took automatically. “Anakin Skywalker, nice to meet you. I’m a recovering Dissociative Personality Disorder patient.”

“What the fuck does that mean?” Black asked, wrinkling his nose at the unfamiliar terminology.

“It means I’m crazier than the average Jawa.” Skywalker turned back to Rex and Ahsoka, but then his eyes slid past them. “Jade?”

Rex turned his head; Jade looked like she wanted to murder herself an ex-Jedi General, too. “Skywalker,” she ground out.

“Uh, what the hell are you doing here?” Skywalker asked.

Jade must have been trying to set him on fire with her eyes, if the intensity of her stare was any indication. “Learning,” she answered tersely.

“Learning? What—” Skywalker cut off whatever he was going to say. “Wait, seriously? You have a training bond with Obi-Wan?”

Jade scowled. “Yes. Do you have a problem with that?”

Skywalker stared at Jade, looking like a man who’d given up on reality making sense. “No,” he said at last. “I find it _extremely_ funny, but I just had to follow a twenty-meter blood trail, so I’m not in the mood to laugh about it right now. Maybe later.”

Rex felt himself pale. “Twenty meter blood trail?”

“That is actually the least important aspect of all of this.” Skywalker turned back to Grey. “An Imperial shuttle left from bay A-19. If there is _anyone_ in this garrison who knows about that shuttle, you need to find them and hang them up by their fucking toes until they tell you where it was going.”

“Why their toes?” Silver asked. “Also, aren’t you supposed to be dead?”

“Blood rush to the head,” Skywalker explained. “Euphoria makes some people talkative. Oh, and yes, I _really am supposed to be dead._ ”

There was a tense beat of silence. “Man, this has been the weirdest day,” Ezra blurted.

“You don’t know the half of it,” Skywalker muttered. Then he glanced over the group, and his expression darkened. “No, wait. You guys really _don’t_ know the half of it, do you?”

“We just got here!” Orrelios growled in frustration. “Nobody’s had a clue about what’s going on since we stepped onto Lothal.”

Skywalker put both of his hands in his hair and pulled. “You don’t—he didn’t—fuck, I am not dealing with that right now. I do not have time for an in-depth explanation of this insanity.”

Ahsoka took a breath. “No, we don’t have time, and it can wait.”

“Not for long,” Jarrus muttered.

Ahsoka ignored him. “What codes, and what’s a hard lockdown?”

Skywalker dropped his hands and straightened. “The Noghri, like Khabarakh here, used to work for the Empire.”

“It must have infuriated Director Isard when they turned in their resignation,” Jade said.

Khabarakh turned his head and regarded her with unblinking eyes. “The Empire is not yet aware of our shift of allegiance. We are more useful to the _ary’ush_ that way.”

“Useful how?” Syndulla asked.

Another of the Noghri made a sound that Rex suspected was a laugh. “Does your Alliance not have spies?”

“Who’s this _ary’ush_?” Wolffe asked.

“Never mind that,” Skywalker said, cutting off what looked a miffed Noghri’s attempt to answer. “A hard lockdown of the garrison’s database means that it’s not just encrypted data, but a hardwired, encrypted shutdown. It requires a specific set of codes to reboot the system, and those are only carried by a very small number of the Emperor’s most trusted agents.”

“Well, then, what are you waiting for?” Bridger asked. “Do your thing!”

“My…thing?” Skywalker looked pained. “What makes you think I have the reset codes?”

“Because…” Bridger made a face. “Because you’re _you_.”

Skywalker just stared at him. “You don’t give the keys to the kingdom to someone who actively wants you dead.”

 _Not having those keys didn’t stop you from killing the bastard,_ Rex thought with a vicious sort of gladness. He was still angry at Skywalker, but confirmation of a long-term Sith rivalry helped to keep his finger away from the trigger of a blaster.

Wren made a disgruntled sound, badly translated by her helmet. “If you don’t have those codes, then what good are you?”

Skywalker’s smile as sharp-edged as his Master’s. “I’m the reason that you’re not all stuck sorting through the three-hundred-thousand-odd prisoners of war you’ve got in orbit. That would be inconvenient right now, wouldn’t it?”

“The Lothal are appreciative, Skywalker,” Silver said in a dry voice, and then looked to her siblings. “Get on the comms to alert the others. We’re going to question every single Imp in this base until someone can tell us about the shuttle from A-19.”

“Don’t. Don’t bother,” Jade spoke up, grim-faced. “It would be a waste of time, and they’re already an hour ahead of us.”

Skywalker was shaking his head. “I wasn’t going to say anything.”

“I know.” Jade lifted her chin. “It makes me want to shoot you a little bit less.”

“Well.” Skywalker blinked a few times. “Thanks, I think.”

Wolffe was giving Jade a cautious look. “Jade, what’s going on?”

Jade’s eyes flickered to him, then at Rex and Ahsoka, before her attention returned to Silver. “I need a terminal.”

 

*          *          *          *

 

Ahsoka watched, discomfited, as Jade had access to the entire Imperial database reopened with what looked like ten simple lines of code. The woman was navigating through the system with the ease of long-term use.

 _Who gives an Imperial assassin that kind of access?_ she wondered, but she already knew that answer. The Emperor. Jade hadn’t revealed her rank to them beyond “assassin,” but anyone with the Emperor’s personal command codes had to be high in the Imperial hierarchy.

“Aren’t the Lothal worried that Jade might be a spy?” Ezra was asking Silver Greene in a low voice.

Silver glanced at him, smiled, and shook her head. “If Jade had been an Imperial spy, Ben would have buried her in a shallow grave within the first week.”

“Well, that’s…reassuring,” Kanan muttered. He was extremely troubled by the entire situation and doing his best to sit on it until there was an appropriate, danger-free moment to vent it all. “Was that Council standard procedure, Tano?”

Ahsoka had to resist the urge to give him an emphatic yes. Those were the old days, and dredging them up now would serve no point. “Kanan, the Council wasn’t fighting a secret rebellion against an evil Galactic Empire with minimal support and no credits.”

“I’ll take that as a maybe,” Kanan said, which was fair enough. The younger Knight had always been good at picking up on what she didn’t say.

 _Kinder, Obi-Wan would have been, than so many of us._ Yoda sounded grieved, and given the others’ lack of reaction, Ahsoka realized that his words had been for her alone.

 _You did send me out to die horribly,_ Ahsoka sent back.

 _Listened to him more often, we should have,_ Yoda agreed. _To others, as well._

“I’ve got it,” Jade announced, which drew their attention back to the terminal. Anakin was watching the screen with one hand resting on the back of Jade’s chair, following the flow of text with his eyes. “The shuttle _Merciless_ left from A-19, filing a flight plan for J6-2279-001.”

Anakin shook his head. “That’s just an outpost, maybe about thirty minutes from here at lightspeed. They wouldn’t stay for long.”

Jade was scowling at the terminal screen. “There’s been no secondary flight plan. If they left the outpost, we’ll have to go there to find their next destination.”

“I never liked playing ship tag.” Anakin stepped back, allowing Jade to stand up. “With Ben gone and the Imps down, who’s in charge?”

Jade spared Anakin a brief moment of irritation, but then she looked at Silver and the Lothal. “Silver Greene.”

Silver’s eye widened. “What? No, I’m not. This has been a group effort—”

“Yeah, it was a group vote, too.” Black had a wide, mischievous smile on his face. “Past few months, Ben and the rest of us have been talking. We decided you were Lothal’s next Prime Minister, and we even voted on it.”

“Son of a bitch!” Silver put her hands on her hips and glared at Jade. “Did you help?”

Jade gave the other woman a level look. “I’m not Lothal. I didn’t get a vote.”

“Liar,” Silver groused. “All right. Fine. I’ll be a damned Prime Minister, but if I get shot for it, I’m blaming all of you.”

“Not on my watch, you won’t be,” Grey retorted. “What’s first on the menu, Sister P.M.?”

“The first order of business is that you will never call me that again,” Silver replied. “As for the next—Skywalker, what is the deal with your Chiss friends?”

“That part’s two-fold,” Anakin said. “Congratulations on being a new planetary ruler, by the way.” Silver sighed at him and motioned for him to keep talking. “The Chiss owed me a favor, hence the battle group. They’re helping with cleanup in return for a portion of the, ah, recovered hardware.”

“Those are _our_ Star Destroyers,” Jones said, crossing his arms. “Well, ours as in Lothal. Not—never mind.”

“How much are we talking here?” Orrelios asked, his ears twitching.

Anakin glanced at Jade. “How many SDs could Lothal’s infrastructure support?”

“Five at maximum, and that’s pushing it,” Jade said. “It should be three, but Ben had planned on cheating.”

“Slave-rigging the systems.” Anakin nodded. “Not perfect, but it works when you don’t have enough manpower. In that case, Commander Rheet’ann’aku will take four of the captured SDs—her choice, since she’s the one doing the work of clearing the decks.”

Silver nodded. “Fair enough.”

“The last SD will get stuffed with everyone who wants to go back to Imperial space and sent on their way.” Anakin hesitated. “The second part is all politics, and as the Lothal’s new Prime Minister, you get to deal with it.”

“Is it an emergency, or overwhelming problem?” Silver asked in a dry voice.

Anakin considered the question before tilting his hand back and forth in the air. “No, but people might panic and think it is.”

Black took the hint, which boded well for Lothal’s developing leadership. “If you’re not one of the lieutenants or one of our Spectre guests, take a hike!” he yelled. The others went, though Jones shot them a disgruntled look before leaving the room.

“All right.” Silver regarded Anakin cautiously. “Tell me what might induce panic.”

“There aren’t three major systems of government in the galaxy. There are four,” Anakin said.

“Four?” Ahsoka repeated, alarmed. “The Alliance, the Empire…these Chiss?”

“That would be the Chiss Ascendency. The fourth is calling itself the Empire of the Hand,” Anakin said. “Its leader is using the Imperial military platform, but abandoning the speciesism, bigotry, and must-conquer-everything attitudes that highlight the Empire’s method of operations. Senate representation based on population by world or by system, depending on population density, citizenship earned by being born on a Hand-held world or by two years of military service, and so on. Commander Rheet’ann’aku—you can call her Commander Etanna, the Chiss get that their names are long by Basic standards—she is technically still a military member of the Ascendency, but she’s an ally of the Hand’s Chief of State. Commander Etanna is here to offer the Lothal an official position in the Empire of the Hand.”

“What would we have to do?” Silver asked, sounding as suspicious as Ahsoka felt and the others looked.

“Sit down with Etanna, listen to her spiel, then say yes, no, or ask for time to think about it,” Anakin replied.

“And if we refuse?” Silver asked.

Anakin shrugged. “Then they’ll leave. Chiss don’t waste time on lost causes, and they aren’t big on conquering people, especially people who technically don’t have a lot to offer the government.”

Grey frowned. “Then why the hell are they interested in us?”

“The Hand’s Chief of State has this serious thing about people with almost _nothing_ standing up and running a successful military campaign against an oppressor.” Anakin hesitated. “If it didn’t lead to scary contemplations, I’d almost say he has a kink for it.”

“This Chief of State wants to reward us for not dying. Fabulous,” Grey muttered.

Kanan crossed his arms and glared at Anakin. “What do _you_ get out of this?”

Anakin frowned. “I just came here for my brother. However, he isn’t here, and now I have to go find him, _again_. I’ll be leaving as soon as I talk to Commander Rheet’ann’aku.”

“I’m going with you,” Jade said.

“What? Wait, no—”

“He’s my teacher, Skywalker,” Jade bit out. “No arguments; I’m going. Besides, if they locked down the outpost, you’d be out of luck, wouldn’t you?”

“I only have a fighter. A one-person fighter,” Anakin stressed.

“Well, I have Ben’s ship,” Jade shot back. “It’s a six-passenger freighter, Skywalker. I think there’s room enough for you _and_ your ego.”

“Good,” Ahsoka found herself saying. “Because I’m going, too.”

 

*          *          *          *

 

Tamassa and her assistants had taken over the Academy Garrison’s medical wing. It was full of patients who boasted the minor burns, bumps, bruises, and broken limbs typical of most skirmishes. The low rumble of voices filled the wing, soldiers and support staff conversing or grumbling under their breath. Most of the patients were Imperial, but Wolffe thought that there was a surprising lack of anger or bitterness coming from the captured troops. At some point over the past year, the Lothal had won their respect, and it showed. There was too much cooperation between Imp patients and Lothal medics, including the exchange of teasing words that often fell flat when it came to treating prisoners of war. The Lothal injured were intermixed with the Imps without much concern for division of ranks, and half of those who were conscious and talkative seemed to be comparing notes with their neighbors.

“I wonder how many Imps are going to defect after this,” Wolffe said in a low voice.

“Don’t know,” Rex replied, skirting the last set of the open ward beds as they followed the chief medic. “It would be nice, though. Lothal sure as hell needs the population boost.”

Tamassa tapped on the door at the end of the hall and peered inside, exchanging words with whoever was within. “All right, you two are good to go,” she said, turning her head to look at Rex and Wolffe. “Try not to stress him if you can help it.”

“Wasn’t the point, Medic,” Wolffe said, slinging his rifle around so that it rested on his shoulder.

Tamassa nodded. “I know. Thank you for taking the time. I just….none of the rest of us would have any idea what to say.”

Rex pushed the door open, and Wolffe followed him inside. Corporal Gein saw them and his eyes widened. The kid scrambled to stand upright, trying to throw a salute, but Rex waved him down.

“It’s fine, Gein,” Rex said, his voice soft.

“Sir?” Gein’s voice was thick; his jaw was dark red and swollen from being stuck by the butt of Rex’s blaster rifle.

“He means that it wasn’t your fault.” Wolffe sighed when Gein just looked panicked. “Corporal Gein. We’ve been where you are now.”

Gein slumped back down in the chair. “Yes, sir. I guess you have.”

“So believe us when we say it. Not your fault,” Rex repeated, dropping his hand down on the kid’s shoulder. “You stunned one person and got a crack in the face for it. That’s the worst it’s ever going to get.”

Gein looked up at Rex, then glanced over at Wolffe. “But what if—that word. What if someone in command says it again?”

“Soon as the Jedi get back from stomping the Adepts that used that command in the first place, they’ll sit down with you and Travaill. Whatever programming the Empire used on you, they can undo it,” Rex promised. “Not quite the same as prying a chip out of your head, but probably a hell of a lot easier.”

Gein swallowed. “I hope so.”

Wolffe nodded at Travaill. “How’s he doing?”

“Not so good,” Gein said, sighing heavily. “Tamassa says that the vibroblade missed his heart, but it’s still…it’s still pretty bad.”

Wolffe looked over the sergeant, who was too pale for his dark skin. There was gentle surgical tape keeping his eyes shut, which meant a drug-induced coma to keep him still. He was breathing on his own, which was a plus, but his chest was still a mass of bandages and bacta.

“They give him any odds?” Rex asked.

“Uh—ten for, ninety against, originally,” Gein said, looking ill. “But every hour he keeps breathing on his own, the odds go up five percent.” The kid checked the chrono inset on his vambrace, which was cracked on both sides. “He’s up to thirty-seventy, now.”

“Then he’ll make it,” Wolffe said. “Anyone who’s held out this long after taking two fucking vibroblades to the chest is too stubborn to die.”

Gein let out a weak chuckle. “Sounds like my sergeant.”

“We’re not going to be here when he wakes up, so when he does, you tell him,” Rex said, pinning Gein with a stern glare that had once left a lot of Shinies quaking in their boots. “This wasn’t his fault. Not yours, not his. Not either of you. Got it, Corporal?”

Gein lifted his chin and nodded. “Sir. You bring the General back, all right? I think that’ll do a lot to convince Sergeant Travaill about this not being his fault.”

Rex grinned at the kid. “Corporal, I always do.”

Wolffe gave the kid another nod of reassurance before leading the way out. There was fire in Rex’s eyes, a spark of joyful determination, that Wolffe hadn’t seen since Gregor’s death.

Hunting for Sith Adepts suddenly seemed like it was going to be a lot more fun.

 

*          *          *          *

 

There were many times in which Mara thought she understood people—all of their wiles, suspicions, inclinations, and fears. Then came those moments when her old training was proven entirely wrong. The Lothal barely blinked at her revealed status as a formerly high-ranked Imperial assassin. She hadn’t been worried about being cast from Ben’s side, but she had been…concerned. She had friends among the Lothal people now, and the idea of losing those friendships made her feel cold in a way that Sidious’s Darkness never had.

The Alliance representatives were having more trouble processing the news, but she was allowed to find that entertaining. For a group who professed to welcome all comers, they stressed a lot about former loyalties, even though Mara had left those loyalties behind the moment she’d formally accepted Ben’s offer of an apprenticeship.

Mara left the Spectres to flail amongst themselves and went out into the field west of the port. It was verging on dark; preparations and cleanup had eaten so much of their time. She needed a moment to breathe, or she was going to stress-snap and shoot everything blocking her path to a ship.

The pale yellow grass stretched for kilometers, knee deep and swaying in the light breeze. The field was illuminated by Lothal’s two moons, making it easy to discern details. The smell in the air was almost normal, if you could ignore the faint tang of acid pollution, or the burnt scent of too much recent blasterfire in the region. They were far from the main tunnels of the Warren, but she suspected that wouldn’t matter much.

It was only minutes before the first Lothcat popped its head up out of the grass and trilled at her. Mara bit back a smile and let the cat prance up to her. “Yes, it’s me. No, I do not have treats for you.”

The Lothcat gave her a look of deep reproach and nipped her fingers for the lie. “Find the others first. You don’t get all of it,” Mara told him. “I’m wise to your tricks, Fives.”

Fives twitched his ear, the one with the bite missing from it, and darted back into the grass to go fetch his pard. One of his brothers took advantage of Mara’s distraction and launched himself at her boot, trying to put every single one of his teeth through her shoe leather.

Mara stared down at him. “Stop that immediately, Dice. You might fool Ben, but I’m not falling for it.”

“The _hell?_ ”

Mara glanced behind her to find the old clone standing there, looking as if he’d just been slapped in the face. “Did you say Dice?” Rex asked, eyes wide.

Mara smiled. “I did. Here come the rest of the ingrates, too,” she said, as Fives led the parade of Lothcats out of the grass and into the tromped-down clearing.

Dice whined at her. “You’re going to wait your turn, greedy—Echo!” she yelped, as yet another cat leapt up and stole the packet from her hand.

“Sorry,” Rex said, walking over to join her. “I had a bad moment when I couldn’t tell if I was having a flashback or not.”

“Why?” Mara used the Force, a careful burst of her developing fine control, to steal the packet of scraps back from Echo. The Lothcat growled until Mara glared at him. Echo lowered his ears in a full sulk, swishing his tail as he waited with exaggerated, entirely false patience to be fed.

“Did Obi-Wan name the mouthy little furballs?”

Mara nodded and pointed out the cats. “He introduced me, once they decided I was worth tolerating. That is Fives, Dice, Echo, Waxer, Scrap, and Oddball. The queen there is Mouse.”

Rex made a strangled sound that might have been amusement, but she couldn’t quite tell. “Obi-Wan named a bunch of _Lothcats_ after my brothers.”

“And one sister?” Mara asked, tossing the largest meat scrap at Mouse. The queen of the pard picked it up like a dainty princess and vanished into the grass to eat.

“Mouse was a regular, one of the early volunteers before Tarkin got ahold of the military and fucked us all over,” Rex replied. “Do you know why there are Lothcats running around with my brothers’ names?”

Mara reached down to give Scrap’s ears a gentle scratch. “Ben said that they were belligerent, dangerous bastards who followed him everywhere. Given my introduction to you and Wolffe, I believe him.”

Rex let Fives sniff his gloved hand. Fives twitched his ears, sneezed, and then wandered off to search for leftovers. “He didn’t name one of these furry assholes after me, did he?”

Mara shook her head, biting back a smirk. “None of them tried to follow him home.”

“Hmm. Yeah, guess that’s fair,” Rex said, smiling. “I came to tell you that we’re about ready to head out.”

“Have the Spectres seen sense, yet?”

Rex glanced back towards the city. “Well, Syndulla, Orrelios, and Wren get it, but Jarrus and Bridger are Jedi. They kind of have a thing about saving other Jedi.”

Mara sighed in irritation. “Of course they do.”

By the time they got back to the garrison, the argument was still in full swing. Mara rested one hand on her blaster and watched.

“Jarrus is deferring to Skywalker, and he doesn’t even know it,” she said.

Rex nodded. “Jarrus was a Jedi Commander at the end of the war. The whole bit about deferring to your commanding officers sticks hard, even if you don’t want it to.”

Skywalker’s voice rang out. “Look, I’m not saying that you’re completely wrong, but you’re _mostly_ wrong.”

“We’re Jedi. Dealing with Sith is what we _do_ ,” Bridger insisted. “Even if, uh, Vader is the only Sith we’ve ever dealt with.”

“You rated Inquisitors, and those count,” Skywalker replied, and then shook his head. “Listen: For all we know, we’re the only other Jedi left in the entire galaxy. Seven Jedi to stand for _everyone_. If shit goes wrong and all six of us die, then my son really will be left to rebuild the Jedi Order on his own. I don’t know about you guys, but I’d rather not do that to someone—and I _really_ don’t want to do it to him.”

Bridger looked frustrated. “Why can’t you keep being an evil asshole? I don’t know how to argue back against sensible thoughtfulness!”

“Kid needs more diplomatic practice,” Skywalker told Jarrus, whose eyes narrowed. “That wasn’t a slight, I was serious.”

“There isn’t enough diplomatic practice in the world,” Orrelios muttered. Jarrus turned his glare upon the Lasat, who only shrugged in response.

“Look. We have a full-sized infiltration team,” Skywalker said, meaning Mara, Wolffe, Rex, and Tano. “The Lothal need you guys here right now.”

“Kanan, I know you don’t want to admit it, but Skywalker’s correct.” Syndulla came over and took her spouse’s hand. “The Lothal do need us here. There is a lot of work to do in the next few days, especially given the new Prime Minister’s decision to host the Chiss command crew for the night.”

“Do you expect treachery from the Chiss?” Jarrus asked Skywalker. The show of irritation was almost convincing, but Jade knew he was giving in.

Skywalker glanced in the direction of the parked Chiss landing craft. “No, but I wouldn’t give them free access to anything they ask for, either.” Skywalker’s eyes slid back to Jarrus. “What’s really bothering you, Kanan?”

Jarrus reared back in anger and surprise. There was a solid thirty seconds in which Mara didn’t know if Jarrus was going to respond, or draw a weapon and shoot Skywalker. For his part, Skywalker gave Jarrus a calm, level look that did a good job of being somewhat reassuring.

“The last time we tried to rescue a surviving Jedi, it didn’t go so well,” Jarrus finally admitted.

“They died?” Skywalker asked.

“No. She was already dead.” Jarrus sighed and rubbed his face with one hand. “You’ll bring him back here, right?”

Skywalker nodded. “Obi-Wan would be pissed off if I didn’t. We’ll bring him back, and then we can take turns yelling at him for getting nabbed by sub-par Sith.”

“Is that actually something we do?” Bridger asked, an unwilling smile growing on his face.

“I’ve got second dibs,” Rex said dryly. “Jade here called it first.”

 _A brave man you are, Kanan Jarrus,_ Yoda chimed in, which made Mara frown. _One who cares about those he wishes to protect._

Jarrus closed his eyes. “I’m trying, Master.”

 _Do, or do not._ The ancient troll’s annoying refrain was far gentler than Mara had ever heard it. _You and your family—the champions of the Lothal, you are. You betray nothing by honoring that promise._

Prepping the _Figment_ took almost no time at all, not when it had already been in the air for battle once that day. Mara inspected the ship inside and out while her team performed last minute errands, and then sat down at the top of the boarding ramp to wait.

Skywalker arrived first, wearing a brown cloak that looked a lot like the old Jedi standard. “I’d really like to bring the fighter with us, but I don’t trust this bucket to support the extra weight.”

Mara refused to admit that a second ship would be her preference, too. “I’m surprised you’re willing to let someone else fly.”

Skywalker gave her an odd look. “Everyone coming along is damned good on the stick. I’d trust any one of us to get us there in one piece. Besides, the Clawcraft is way too…”

“Distinctive,” Mara said, noting the approach of Tano, Wolffe, and Rex, accompanied by Wren and Bridger.

“That, too,” Skywalker agreed, and went inside the ship. “Damn, this thing is tiny,” she heard him complain, and then her attention was on the Spectres.

“You guys have to be careful, all right?” Bridger said. Tano smiled at him, which Bridger took as an invitation to hug her. Mara tried not to reveal her surprise. Tano struck her very much as a traditional Jedi, like those who had always seemed to abhor physical contact. She just didn’t know any longer how much of that was Imperial propaganda, and how much was truth.

“We’ll be careful, safe, and effective,” Tano replied, which made Wolffe smirk.

Wren pulled the lightsaber from her belt. Mara clenched both hands into fists and tried not to glare. “You hold onto this,” Wren told Rex, who took it when she held it out.

Mara forced herself to relax. That was not quite what she would prefer, but it was a hell of a lot better than her Master’s weapon being carried around by one of the Spectres.

“I used to do that an awful lot,” Rex said, attaching Ben’s lightsaber to his belt with a move that still looked practiced.

 

*          *          *          *

 

It was just as well that the outpost was deserted, or else Skywalker’s pet Noghri would have left them a fresh trail of bodies to walk over. Mara glanced at the Noghri’s transport, one that had been waiting to meet them when the Figment had dropped out of hyperspace. It did an excellent job of blending in with their surroundings; she suspected some form of cloaking device, or else a _very_ good paint job.

“You didn’t tell us that this lot was coming along,” Rex said, while Khabarakh and his team spoke to each other in their own language. What a time to be without her polyglot teacher, who would probably have been able to pick out one word in five at this point. Whatever the Noghri discussed would remain a mystery until they switched back to Basic.

Skywalker gave the old clone a look that Mara couldn’t interpret. “They’re not slaves, Rex. I didn’t ask them to do this.”

“Also, we did not tell him,” Khabarakh said, and chuckled when Skywalker rolled his eyes. “There are no life signs within the facility, _ary’ush_. We would have cleared it before your arrival, but your ship was faster than anticipated.”

“I appreciate your efforts, and thank you, but seriously—don’t get so far ahead of us. I don’t want to lose any of you to these fucking Adepts,” Skywalker told the Noghri.

Khabarakh bowed his head in token agreement, but eight Noghri expressions told Mara that the aliens were going to do whatever they pleased.

“They take the Life Debt thing very seriously.” Skywalker prodded at the controls to the facility’s only entrance. “Well, at least it’s not on lock down,” he said as the door opened.

“We could do a lot worse for allies than former Death Commandos,” Mara said, when Tano looked like she was going to protest.

“Well, we’ve already got Darth Vader and an Imperial assassin,” Wolffe said, popping the safety on his rifle as they went inside. “Might as well round out the set.”

“Hey!” Skywalker protested.

“That’s not actually funny,” Rex grumbled, but Mara was smiling wide enough for her face to hurt.

The facility had the intense quiet of an abandoned base. Mara remained alert, but the Noghri were correct. If the Adepts had come here, they left not long afterward. Instead, what caught her attention was a scent in the air, some cologne or deep-toned perfume.

Mara set her brain to trying to figure out why that smell was familiar while Skywalker, Khabarakh, and Tano accessed the data system for the outpost. The rest of the Noghri and the two clones spread out, a fan detail that would do an excellent job of defending the group against surprise attacks.

“There they are,” Skywalker said, at the same time as Mara jerked her head up and yelled, “Shit!”

“What?” Wolffe asked, while Mara gritted her teeth. By the stars, Ben was a terrible influence on her language.

She had to resist the urge to ignite her lightsaber and palm a blaster at the same time. “Isard was here.”

“You sure?” Rex asked.

“No, she’s right. Director Isard’s arrival is on the logs.” Tano frowned. “Before the Adepts.”

“They knew.” Skywalker looked up from the terminal, steel showing in his eyes. “They didn’t leave his lightsaber behind on accident. It was on purpose.”

“A taunt,” Tano realized. “Their entire purpose from the start was not just to put down the rebellion on Lothal, but to capture a Jedi.”

“They got the wrong one,” Mara said, tightening her grip on her lightsaber hilt. “They weren’t on Lothal for Tanno’baijii. They were here for me.”

Skywalker turned around to stare at her. “What? _Why?_ Nobody knew who you were. Your position should have been secure. What the hell happened?”

“Isard happened,” Mara replied, and if her smile was humorless and bitter, then so be it. “The moment the Emperor’s death was confirmed, she threw me into a detention cell.”

“Iceheart,” Skywalker muttered. “What did you do to piss her off, Jade?”

Her answer was bone dry. “She didn’t like my dancing.”

“She didn’t know your true identity,” Tano guessed.

“And she doesn’t like not knowing things,” Mara said. Talking her way out of that detention cell had been some of her best acting, if also some of her most desperate. “Skywalker, keep looking. Where did the Adepts go?”

“Well, Director Isard’s flight on the SD _Violator_ has a confirmed flight plan back to Coruscant,” he said.

“Would she have taken Kenobi with her?” Wolffe asked.

Skywalker frowned. “No. Too public. She might have control of the Empire, but it’s not a tight rein. She couldn’t afford that kind of distraction right now.”

“Well, I’d rather not infiltrate Coruscant right now, anyway,” Tano said. “The Adepts?”

“There’s no listed departure for the _Merciless._ ” Skywalker stepped away from the terminal. “It’s not coded. They just didn’t tell the system where they were going.”

Rex pulled his helmet, looking frustrated. “This is just a dead end, then.”

“Yeah.” Skywalker ran both hands through his hair. “It was still worth checking out, in case they’d made it easy for us.”

“Dammit. Now what?” Wolffe asked.

“The Adepts are stationed somewhere in the Deep Core.” Skywalker’s gaze went distant and haunted in a way that Mara found disturbing. “But I don’t know where.”

Tano powered down the terminal when Khabarakh’s Second gave up with a grumble of disgust. “I don’t like the idea of wandering the galaxy, hoping we’re going in the right direction.”

“Hey, some days that’s the only way we ever did anything right,” Skywalker told her, smiling when the Jedi tried not to look pleased. “But we don’t just have to rely on my shitty sense of direction. Jade?”

Mara glared at him. “I haven’t sensed anything from Ben since that idiot stunned me.”

“That doesn’t matter,” Skywalker said. “You’ll _know._ ”

“Why don’t _you_ know?” she shot back.

“Coming here from Mortis—it wasn’t supposed to happen,” Skywalker said, to her surprise. “It broke the bond we had. Right now, you’re the only one with a connection to Obi-Wan that we can use.”

Mara bit her lip and glanced away.

_You are powerful enough to recognize a connection that was severed over twenty years ago. You’re very strong in the Force._

_Don’t be ridiculous,_ she’d said. Ben was often ridiculous, but never about her training. Never about the Force.

_You told me I had the potential to be an apprentice in my own right. I want you to prove it._

Ben, sounding frustrated: _He never wished you to feel joy, did he? He trained you into snuffing your own damned potential._

Anger always came first. She tried hard, but her temper was still fierce. _You started my training with the most difficult lightsaber form in existence?_

Ben had smiled at her. _And you’ve learned in six months what took me almost two years._

What had she felt in that moment?

Pride. Pleasure, that he had trusted her to such a grand extent.

Mara let fierce delight rise up in her breast, the one emotion she so often denied herself. She’d felt such _joy_ in that success, in knowing that she really did have the potential he’d once claimed.

When Mara opened her eyes, everyone in the room was staring at her. The Noghri were respectful, as were the clones. Tano had her hands clasped together, smiling at Mara. Her eyes were bright and peaceful for the first time since Mara had met her, without a hint of the wariness that the Spectre group treated her to.

Skywalker’s smile was a lot more sharp-edged, the look of a man who knew the hunt was about to begin. “What’s it going to be, Jade?”

“Deep Core,” Mara said, slowly breathing out. “I don’t know specifically where, yet, but I imagine we’ll both be able to point in the right direction when we get there. Won’t we?”

Skywalker inclined his head. “Sister Padawan,” he said in acknowledgement. “Let’s go, people.”

Mara followed the others out of the empty outpost. She felt like she was leaving something behind, but whatever it happened to be, she was certain she could do without it.

 

*          *          *          *

 

Ahsoka waited until the ship was in hyperspace again, and all the boards were green, before she joined the others in the hold. Rex was staring at Anakin, Wolffe was staring at Mara Jade, and both of the latter were pretending not to be aware of it.

Then again… Ahsoka peered closer. Anakin wasn’t pretending.

“I think we have time to discuss what’s going on now,” she said.

Anakin looked up at her. Without an immediate task to focus on, there was no intensity to his gaze, just muted presence. It was reassuring and unsettling both, as Ahsoka had never actually seen him without that particular, characteristic drive.

Wolffe glanced at Anakin and then snorted. “Right, I think we’ll start with the easy questions. Who are you?” he asked Jade.

“Mara Jade,” Jade answered, a smile curling at the edges of her lips.

“Oh, you are definitely Kenobi’s student,” Rex said, leaning back in his seat to look at Jade. “What kind of ex-assassin smuggler’s lieutenant is walking around with codes that could get us into any facility in the Empire?”

Jade didn’t dodge the question, though Ahsoka suspected that even a mere hour ago, she would have. “The sort who used to be the Emperor’s favorite Hand.”

“All right, I’ll bite.” Wolffe crossed his arms. “What is a Hand? And is it related to that Empire of the Hand shit that Skywalker was talking about?”

Jade looked at Anakin, who just lifted his arms in an expansive shrug. “You made an impression.”

“I was in that man’s company for _five minutes,_ ” Jade emphasized crossly.

“Yeah, but Thrawn’s like that,” Anakin said. “Everyone he’d met up to that point who was that high up in the system was an asshole, like Vader, Tarkin, most of the Moffs, and every single damned one of the other Grand Admirals. You were the first person he spoke to that seemed to embody the spirit of the Empire that Thrawn had first been told about, the stuff that made him interested in the first place.”

Jade was still displeased. “Loyalty,” she said in a snide voice.

“Ehhh, sort of.” Anakin tapped his finger three times on his seat and then stopped, as if catching himself in the middle of a nervous tick. “More like the fact that you were intelligent, skilled, and had a code of morality that was capable of recognizing that some people were to be guarded and protected, not…well. Lothal is a prime example of the opposite.”

“Got all that in five minutes, huh?” Rex asked. “Who is _this_ guy, now?”

“Chiss Chief of State of the Empire of the Hand,” Anakin said. “Oh, and the thirteenth Imperial Grand Admiral.”

Wolffe scowled. “There are thirteen of those fucks?”

Anakin held up his hand, one finger raised to signal ‘wait’ while he muttered under his breath. “Well, now the count is down to six.”

Rex gave Anakin a dry look. “Have you been killing Grand Admirals, Skywalker?”

“No!” Anakin protested, and then looked sheepish. “Well, not on purpose. There just happened to be two of them in places that I wanted to be. The Alliance got three, one died at Endor, and we’re pretty sure Isard got the last one. He dismissed her in public and then completely disappeared.”

“Makati.” That one, Ahsoka knew about.

“Couldn’t have happened to a nicer asshole,” Wolffe said.

Anakin shrugged. “No great loss. Anyway, those remaining six include Thrawn, but he’s using his position to basically steal the Imperial military out from under Isard’s nose.”

Ahsoka glanced at Rex and Wolffe. “I like him already,” she said, to the brothers’ amusement. “I just can’t believe that the Emperor willingly promoted a non-human into the highest rank in the Imperial military.”

Jade spoke before Anakin could. “He didn’t have much choice. Thrawn is a military genius, and the Emperor wished for that genius to never be turned in his direction.”

Anakin half-smiled. “Yeah. You want to keep a Bantha, you put a harness on it.”

“Is this second Empire a threat to the Alliance?” Ahsoka asked bluntly. “I didn’t want to ask in front of the Lothal—it’s their decision on who to ally themselves with, if they choose to do so at all.”

“Ninety-five percent chance that they’re not,” Anakin answered.

“Ninety-five percent?” Rex echoed.

“They’re still using all the Imperial trappings whenever they visit our part of the galaxy,” Anakin said. “It’s how they’re infiltrating the ranks to convince other Imperials to jump ship. All it would take is a misunderstanding, the Alliance attacks…” He spread his hands. “Chiss are really big on defending what’s theirs, and if what’s theirs is their own people, they’re merciless.”

“Right.” Ahsoka tried not to sigh. That was a waiting powder keg that they didn’t need.

“All right. Back to the Hand part,” Wolffe said, looking at Jade.

Jade seemed uncomfortable, but she still answered him. “I—we really didn’t have a formal rank beyond what we were. My true role within the Empire was only revealed to a specific and very small number of people. But if I had to place it as a rank, it would probably fall between Sith Adept and Sith Apprentice.”

Rex was nodding. “I thought you had previous training.”

“Sith training.” It was now Ahsoka’s turn to be supremely uncomfortable. “You were a Sith.”

“No.” Jade looked annoyed. “I never bore the name, and the training I received was only enough to hone certain skills. I—the Hands were never meant to challenge the Emperor. Our place was about loyalty, and more importantly, secrecy.”

“All of the Inquisitors were ex-Jedi,” Anakin said in a quiet voice. “That’s how they had their particular skillsets to begin with. Nobody got that kind of training after the Purges. You either had it, learned it on your own, or you went without.”

“All of them?” Ahsoka felt ice touch her heart. “I didn’t know that.”

Anakin glanced at her. “Most of them came out of the Citadel.”

“Fuck that place.” Rex always got fierce and angry when the Citadel was mentioned. They’d lost too much to the prison complex, Jedi and clone alike, and what came right afterwards was not one of Ahsoka’s favorite memories.

“I haven’t heard anything about the Citadel in years,” Ahsoka said, while Rex blew out a long breath, trying to calm down.

“I have no idea if it’s still in use.” Anakin looked apologetic. “Not exactly a lot of need for it lately.”

“How long were you based on Coruscant?” Rex asked Jade.

“A long time. I was…” Jade trailed off, expression souring. “Five?”

“She was four,” Anakin said in a flat voice. “Vader was extremely pissed off about that. He hated the Temple doctrine on cradle-robbing, and then Sidious goes out and does the same fucking thing.”

Ahsoka found herself blinking in disbelief. “You—you two have known each other for seventeen years?” It was better on focusing on the fact that a Sith had kidnapped a young child in order to groom her into his primary assassin.

“Don’t remind me,” Jade muttered.

“I don’t think it really classifies as _knowing_ each other. I mean, Vader wasn’t big into getting to know people.” Anakin paused and tilted his head. “Well, no, wait. He liked Aphra. She was fucking nuts, but in a useful way instead of a Tarkin or Zsinj way.”

“I feel like we’re in the middle of the weirdest reminiscence ever,” Wolffe said to Rex.

“Yeah, uh—I guess we could—wait, what was the original topic?” Anakin asked.

Ahsoka bit back a smile at the verbal flailing and turned to Jade. “How does one go from being a Hand to a lead smuggler for Talon Karrde?”

“Random circumstances in which he observed me being very good at my job,” Jade replied.

“Didn’t know Karrde was in the assassination business,” Wolffe said.

Jade gave Wolffe a thin-lipped smile that didn’t quite mask her amusement. “Assassination is not my only useful talent. Or is shooting people _your_ only talent?”

“Depends upon the day,” Wolffe shot back, grinning. “When did you quit being an Imperial assassin?”

Jade’s smile vanished as she lowered her head. “When he died. If he hadn’t, you and I would still be on opposite sides of the battlefield.”

“Would you still be loyal if Iceheart hadn’t flipped out?” Anakin asked her.

Jade frowned. “Maybe. Then again, given what Isard’s done in the last year, maybe not.”

“How did you go from being so loyal to the Empire to becoming…well, a Jedi apprentice?”

Jade eyed Ahsoka in a way that said she’d noticed the deliberate shift away from Padawan. “When the Emperor died, his last act was to place me under a Force compulsion. The first time I met Ben—Obi-Wan—he recognized it, informed me of its existence, and volunteered to remove it. He did so, and I went back to work.”

Anakin looked sympathetic. “I imagine it was a lot quieter in your head without the shouting.”

Jade made a vague sound of agreement. “It was. Ben also said during that first meeting that I had potential. On our next run to Lothal, I told him to prove it.”

Rex smiled, nostalgic. “That is definitely one of the confirmed ways to get Kenobi to do something.”

“Do I even want to know?” Ahsoka asked, noticing the look that passed between Rex and Anakin.

“Ask Obi-Wan about the First Battle of Bothawui,” Anakin said, and Rex winced. “When we find him, I mean. After the rescuing part.”

There was her Master’s awkwardness, Ahsoka thought, smiling. She had wondered if it had survived the passing years, let alone Vader. “I’m sure it will be entertaining, since I didn’t know I was participating in the second one.”

“Is any of this going to be a problem?” Jade asked. Ahsoka caught the flicker of unease in the woman’s eyes only because she was watching for it.

“Kenobi thought you were worth his time. That’s good enough for me,” Rex said.

Wolffe shrugged. “Alliance ranks are full of ex-Imps. Be damned hypocritical of us to throw a fit about an allegiance that doesn’t exist anymore.”

“You’re a Jedi,” Ahsoka said in a quiet voice. Jade glared at her but didn’t deny it. “We know our own.”

Anakin glanced at Jade. “What was the compulsion?”

Jade’s mouth twisted. “I was supposed to kill your son.”

Anakin didn’t seem surprised. “Thanks. For not actually doing so.”

“I didn’t do it for you,” Jade retorted.

“I know.” Anakin gave her a faint smile. “I’m thanking you anyway.”

Jade huffed out an irritated sigh. “You’re welcome.”

“And then there’s our other resident crazy person,” Rex said, meaning Anakin. “I still kind of want to shoot you, so I’d really like an explanation.”

“Yeah, I know.” Anakin rubbed his temple with his left hand. “I’m trying to figure out _how_ to do that in a way that makes sense.”

“I know a place to start,” Ahsoka said, getting his attention. “When you touched that Adept’s broken lightsaber, what happened? Was it a vision?”

“No, it was a memory.” Anakin crossed his arms, his eyes narrowing. “And it wasn’t one of his, it was one of mine.”

Ahsoka looked at Rex, who was frowning. She finally spoke when the others remained silent. “You keep referring to Vader as separate from yourself.”

“Yeah, and that part, I actually do know how to explain.” Anakin dug around in his cloak pockets until he pulled out a dull brown rock the size of his palm. He stood up and levitated the rock into the air. “This, ladies and gentlebeings, is a really bad representation of a sentient mind.”

Anakin clenched his hand into a fist, and the rock shattered into bits. Wolffe flinched and wrapped his hand around the butt of his pistol; Ahsoka barely kept herself from jerking back. Jade just gave Anakin a look of supreme irritation.

“Then what is _that_ supposed to be?” Rex asked, glaring at Anakin.

Anakin twitched one finger. The scattered shards, pebbles, and dust resumed its rotation, but it was a disastrous, ungainly mess. “That is what a broken Lifebond does to a sentient mind.”

Ahsoka gasped. “You broke your Lifebond with Padmé?”

Anakin looked at her, and it was easy to see the grief in his eyes. “No.”

“But Padmé—Senator Amidala—she didn’t have the _training_ ,” Ahsoka tried to say, but Anakin was shaking his head.

“Not either of us.” Anakin’s jaw clenched. “Sidious.”

Rex straightened up from his relaxed slump. “No fucking way.”

“I thought that wasn’t possible,” Ahsoka whispered, stunned.

“That’s what _everyone_ thought,” Anakin said, still contemplating the slow rotation of rock shards. “Nobody knew it could be done—we still don’t know how he did it.”

“Some of us aren’t Jedi academics,” Wolffe said testily. “Someone please explain this to me.”

“Jedi Lifebonds are like marriages, except there’s no paperwork involved and it’s all up here,” Anakin explained, pointing at his head with a bionic finger. “Okay, so Padmé and I did the marriage part, too, and that came first, but you can’t really have two strong Force sensitives in a committed relationship for very long without some sort of bond happening. It was a strong connection, but it wasn’t well-developed because nobody had any fucking time to spare. The only reason Spy-Girl and I had a developed training bond was because we were together all the time, blowing shit up.”

“Spy-Girl?” Wolffe repeated, giving Ahsoka a merciless grin.

“Don’t you start,” Ahsoka told him, scowling at Wolffe when his grin widened. “No.”

“Wolffe. Not right now,” Rex said, and then looked at Anakin. “It killed her. Not that Jedi insurgent line of shit.”

“Yeah.” Anakin’s head bowed. “It probably should have killed me, too, but Sidious was there to do something else.” The rotating debris of the rock spread out, creating a wide, messy orbit around a tiny single point. “All of that would have been me, afterwards.”

When Anakin looked up again, the intensity that Ahsoka was used to was shining in his eyes. The rotation of rocks shifted as several mismatched pieces merged upon the center point. Anakin clenched his fist until they were crushed into a solid mass. None of the pieces fit together; it just looked like a misshapen, ugly mess. The rest of the former rock’s components were still spread out, orbiting the new center piece.

“That’s Vader.”

Ahsoka listened with newfound horror as her Master explained what it had been like to suddenly be two entities, one of which had been sculpted by one of the most evil beings the galaxy had ever known. “Anakin, I’m so sorry.”

Anakin waved her off. “No, don’t. It’s…well, no, it’s _not_ fine, but it’s…” He grimaced. “Look, I’m an asshole. There are things Vader did that I could have easily decided to do, crazy or not.”

“The Temple.” Rex gave Anakin a cold stare that still didn’t quite mask the hope underneath. “The kids—”

 _“No!_ ” Anakin looked horrified. “Did you really think I’d march on the Temple and kill all the children in my own home?”

“Not at the time,” Rex admitted grudgingly.

“I’d just found out I was going to be a father. Supposed treachery or not, I was not in any mood to slaughter kids.” Anakin ran his hands through his hair and sighed. “I don’t even remember it. Neither does Vader. Obi-Wan thinks that it’s because neither of us were piloting.”

“Wishful thinking,” Wolffe grunted.

“No.” Anakin regarded the spinning rocks again. “Obi-Wan doesn’t do wishful thinking when it comes to Vader. The one time he tried, it almost got him killed.”

“You _did_ kill him,” Jade pointed out in an acid-laced voice.

Anakin didn’t seem bothered. “Yes, but we’re way beyond that now.” He wriggled his fingers at the rotating rock mess. The inner clump that was Vader eased apart but didn’t separate, while the outer ring of debris started closing in on the center. “It takes about ten years to start healing from a broken Lifebond.”

“You were in that fucking suit for twenty-five years.”

Anakin glanced at Rex. “Yeah.”

“Is that why you didn’t kill us?” Ahsoka asked hesitantly. “Either of us?”

“Rex and his balcony—that was me, managing to nudge Vader into the least murderous course of action. I’d even tried to give his brothers time to escape, but the stormtroopers caught up to them.

“But when we met after the Lothal Rebellion? I don’t know, Snips. I don’t remember much from those years.” Anakin’s gaze was still intense, but it was also colder somehow. Ahsoka was almost certain that she was seeing Vader, even though there was a distinct lack of the dread and clanging sense of danger that had always accompanied the Sith’s appearances.

 _Mortis_. Ahsoka managed to keep the realization from her face. On Mortis, she had met Vader for the very first time. He had not harmed her, or Obi-Wan, because that version of Vader hadn’t been a creation of Sidious. He’d been Dark, but _sane._

“Have any of you ever heard of the Year Ten Insurrection?” Anakin asked them.

Ahsoka, Wolffe, and Rex exchanged looks before turning almost as one body to regard Jade. “I was _six years old_ at the time,” the woman snapped in response. “I don’t know what he’s talking about.”

“That’s because it never happened.” Anakin laced his hands behind his back. “In Year Ten, Vader met the Noghri after a scouting mission discovered their homeworld. He found a planet full of scary little ghost commandos, who definitely reminded him of some other scary fuckers he used to know.” Rex tried not to look pleased by the perceived compliment and failed at it.

“The Noghri’s homeworld was ecologically devastated by the crash of one of the large destroyers from the war, one that the cleanup crews either missed or disregarded,” Anakin said. “Vader promised to clean up the mess, and in response the Noghri swore a Life Debt to Vader that is supposed to last for ten generations.”

“What are they calling you?” Ahsoka asked him, curious.

 _“Ary’ush.”_ Anakin ducked his head in embarrassment as he translated. “Savior.”

Jade gave him a disbelieving look. “Savior?”

Anakin shook his head. “I can’t get them to stop calling me that, but they mean it literally. Their planet was dying; Vader saved their entire race.”

“For personal gain,” Jade said.

“Hey, I said started to heal, not completely healed,” Anakin countered. “But yes. The Noghri were the spark that made Vader realize he wanted the Emperor dead.”

Wolffe raised an eyebrow. “Hell of a spark.”

“Vader started doing what he had not before. He cultivated alliances. Diplomatic, military, bounty hunters, degenerate Outer Rim scum—it didn’t matter as long as he thought it would help him make the Emperor dead.” Anakin frowned. “Vader was really close to what he thought would be a successful plan.”

“What happened to the insurrection, then?” Rex asked.

Anakin’s smile was mirthless. “Sidious found out.”

Jade winced, her expression an awkward mix of anger and sympathy. Anakin nodded at her in recognition of whatever Jade was trying to convey. “His preference was to kill Vader and move on, but he had a problem.”

Ahsoka felt a cold chill settle around her heart. She knew exactly what he meant. “Vader was iconic.”

“Yeah, he was.” Wolffe had a grim smile on his face. “The first thing people think of when asked about the Empire isn’t the Emperor—all they knew about him was a cloaked man with a stick. It’s not Tarkin, or Isard, or even that matched set of fucking Death Stars. Nine times out of ten, they’re going to say Vader.”

“What’s the tenth answer?” Jade wanted to know.

Wolffe gave a derisive snort. “Stormtroopers.”

Ahsoka was watching her former Master, who was following the conversation with a bitter expression. “The Adepts,” she realized, and shivered.

Anakin nodded. “Sidious handed Vader over to the Adepts and told them to fix it. Vader was never supposed to have the autonomy to ever again defy him.”

“Gods.” Rex looked ill. “What the hell did they do to you?”

Anakin was studying the lines of his bionic right hand. “I suppose they figured that since Vader was already missing all four of his limbs, cutting off a few more pieces wouldn’t matter.”

 

*          *          *          *

 

Obi-Wan woke up, which was a pleasant surprise.

Everything else was entirely unwelcome.

“Good morning.” The man standing in front of him shared a skin tone with the tongueless adept, but was taller, and thin to the point of emaciation. If the dark clothing hadn’t been a blatant hint, his eyes gave it away. They were like Tiritha’s—blood red highlighted by glowing amber.

“Tamoeth,” Obi-Wan guessed, and then swallowed. His throat was raw, and the word had come out cracked and broken. His head _ached_ , probably from being stunned. He had no idea how long he’d been unconscious. Hours? Days?

Obi-Wan felt a sickening rush of adrenaline when he realized that he couldn’t feel the Force, and then made himself relax. He was fine; he had lived through that and worse.

“I see my siblings introduced themselves.”

“The subject came up,” Obi-Wan said, which was a stupid pun, given the circumstances.

Tamoeth walked to Obi-Wan’s left, and then turned around and walked to the right, pacing in front of him like an animal considering its prey.

 _I am not prey,_ Venge muttered.

If not prey, though, he was certainly not in the position to be a predator on equal footing. He was trapped upright, bolted to an uncomfortable metal table by cuffs at his upper and lower arms as well as his chest and feet—the metal around his chest was making it difficult to breathe. The room was a cell made of duracrete; the lights were harsh and unforgiving, and there was a drain offset in the floor that had suspicious stains.

The Empire was far too fond of variations on a single theme when it came to torture.

“Where am I?”

Tamoeth shook his head. “No, I will not be telling you that. You have a strong link with another, and I do not wish for you to inform them of your location before I’m finished.” He paused. “It is interesting to me that this bond seems to spiral off into nothing. Why is that?”

Obi-Wan refused to answer. Not only was he not handing Tamoeth anything for free, he doubted the Sith Adept would believe him in the first place.

Tamoeth smiled. “I suppose it doesn’t matter.”

“Is this where I’m obligated to ask you what you want?”

The Adept walked forward until he was standing in front of Obi-Wan again. “I want the Empire to thrive once more.”

Obi-Wan snorted. “Good luck with that.”

“I will not need luck,” Tamoeth replied. “I have you.”

“Me?” Obi-Wan raised both eyebrows inquiringly. “And what is it you think I will do for you?”

Tamoeth and Tiritha had similarly unpleasant smiles. “Our Master was very fond of you, Lord Venge. He praised your abilities when he disparaged Vader’s.”

Venge smiled back. “If your Master had worked to better Vader instead, perhaps Vader would not have thrown him down a reactor shaft.”

“Perhaps,” Tamoeth admitted in a thoughtful voice. “I have to admit, I did not think he would be able to do so. We went through quite a bit of effort to ensure that he could not.”

“What do you mean?” There was a sudden knot of cold dread in his stomach, and it wasn’t being caused by the prospect of facing torture. He’d lived through that, too.

“You wouldn’t have heard the story, of course.” Tamoeth resumed his irritating pacing. “In the tenth year of the Empire, Vader attempted a coup against the Emperor.”

Obi-Wan didn’t bother to hide his surprise. No, he hadn’t heard about that. He also hadn’t seen any hint of it in the Well. Then again, the Well of the Dark Side had concentrated on perceived failings. Anakin would have considered a coup to be a good thing, even if the attempt was unsuccessful.

“He had learned from your example,” Tamoeth continued, “and realized that a singular confrontation against our Master would be fruitless. He was conscripting allies that would not be expected, and of course, plotting the destruction of the Emperor’s source of continued life.”

 _Good job, Anakin_ , Obi-Wan thought. That sounded a lot more like his Padawan than Sidious’s Apprentice.

“He was caught, of course. Vader never did have the subtlety of a proper Sith.”

That _also_ sounded like Anakin. Dammit.

“The Emperor gave Vader to me, and my siblings,” Tamoeth said, “to be…reformed.”

“Reformed by whose standards?” Obi-Wan asked, but Tamoeth ignored him.

“Before we did our work, Vader’s suit was almost unnecessary. Time heals all wounds, as the platitude says. This, of course, was not acceptable. Control of the Chosen One had to be assured in order to maintain Balance.”

Anakin remembered nothing of this; Obi-Wan was certain of it. “What did you do?”

“It was a matter of debate, but ultimately we decided that some solutions should be permanent,” Tamoeth said. “Dependence upon the iconic visage of Darth Vader was key. We removed specific sections of the parietal and occipital lobes.”

“You—” Obi-Wan stared at him. “You did—you did _what?_ ”

Tamoeth gave him a look of cold amusement. “Altered his brain. It is no conceit to say that it was some of my best work. When I was done, Vader was an obedient servant, one who remembered nothing of his thwarted insurrection. Oh, there were side effects regarding his ability to control his temper, and the Empire did lose many competent naval officers as a result. But his dependence on the suit was assured once I did away with certain autonomous functions—breathing, in particular.”

There was sharp pain in his hands, and when he spoke, he didn’t recognize his own voice. “You lobotomized my brother.”

Delight made the Adept’s eyes burn with a stronger light. “Now there is the anger that I am looking for.”

Obi-Wan took a breath and unclenched his fists. His palms stung where his nails had bitten in. “Are you going to lobotomize me, as well?” he asked caustically. He could not focus on how much he dearly wanted to wipe the Adept from existence, not right now.

_Gods bled and wept, Anakin. I am so sorry._

“Of course not. I would not cripple you in such a fashion.” Tamoeth lifted his chin so that he could peer down at Obi-Wan. “Of all our Master’s apprentices, you were the one who was meant to surpass the Emperor.”

“He had a funny way of showing it,” Obi-Wan said.

“You misunderstand his actions, but I think perhaps I can explain them. You passed our Master’s test, Lord Venge. Darth Vader was never given any variant of the Sith’s Trials.”

Passed a test? Obi-Wan frowned as he realized what the Adept had to be referring to. “You mean when I tried and failed to kill that fucking bastard? He and I must remember that moment very differently.”

“Perhaps.” Tamoeth reached out and touched the scars on the back of Obi-Wan’s left hand.

Obi-Wan bruised his arm on the cuff when he tried to jerk his hand back. The man’s fingers were shockingly ice cold in a room that was far too warm. There had also been a scent, sterility that covered up the deeper smell of something very like rotting fruit.

“Force, you are—” He had to swallow down nausea spiked with panic.

“Dead?” Tamoeth sighed, but he was smiling again. “Yes. I am a perfectly preserved, animated corpse. I displeased our Master, and this was one of his more…exceptional punishments. He first perfected it on several deceased Jedi.”

The blood in his veins felt like cold acid. It was a lot harder to feign a lack of concern when the Adept had inadvertently stumbled onto one of Obi-Wan’s longest-lasting terrors. “Is _that_ what you’re going to be doing to me?”

“No.” Tamoeth seemed disappointed. “That is one thing I have never learned to do, and it’s just as well. There are a great many limitations to one in my state. I do not travel well, and have vulnerabilities that the living do not.”

“How unfortunate for you.” Obi-Wan shut out the pain of new bruises that were waking up and announcing themselves. “Are you going to tell me, or shall we keep playing guessing games?”

“You will find out soon enough. When I am through with you, Obi-Wan Kenobi will again be deceased, and Darth Venge will help the Empire to regain its former glory.”

Obi-Wan stared at Tamoeth, stuck somewhere between complete horror and icy rage. “You do realize that if you actually accomplish that goal, I will still kill you.”

Tamoeth nodded. “It is something I look forward to with great longing.” The Adept patted his hand, smirking when Obi-Wan tried and failed to jerk away from the icy touch. “I will return shortly, and we will begin.”

Obi-Wan waited until the Adept had left the room, the door sealing behind him, before letting out a strangled breath and letting his head fall forward. Fuck, he was in so much trouble.

 

*          *          *          *

 

Tamoeth expected great things from his prisoner. Sidious, Void take him, had waxed too long, too eloquently, about Venge’s potential. If Tamoeth’s Master were still alive, there was no doubt in his mind that Sidious would have flung his cherished Adepts out into deep space just to have the half-made Sith all to himself.

Therefore, it grated on Tamoeth in a most uncomfortable fashion that aside from their initial confrontation, Venge refused to utter a single word. Even a pure-minded Jedi was not this stubbornly silent, especially given that Tamoeth had caught his sister in the middle of something Tamoeth did _not_ approve of.

“But I want it,” Tiritha hissed at him, after he had used the Force to pin her down and rub her face on the rough stone floor. If she was going to act like an animal, he would treat her like one. “It’s pretty!”

“Dear sister,” Tamoeth said, reminding himself of his familial bonds so that he would not simply eliminate her. “When I am through with him, Lord Venge will peel the tattoo from his own skin and present it to you himself, but in the meantime, _he is not to be damaged._ Is that clear?”

“I hold you both to that promise.” Tiritha growled low in her throat and left the room, much like their other sibling in the midst of one of his famous tantrums.

“I apologize,” Tamoeth said in complete sincerity, as a medical droid bound the damage Tiritha had done to Venge’s left arm. It would heal, but the original script might not reflect the same accuracy. “My sister gets carried away at times. That was not supposed to happen.”

Venge just stared at him, unblinking. Try as he might, Tamoeth could not fathom what the proto-Sith Lord was thinking. According to Takann, Venge had not uttered a sound even as Tiritha’s knife tried to claim a taboo prize.

“Do you know what neural rods are, Lord Venge?”

That earned him nothing more than a continuation of the cold stare.

“I thought not. I would have received some sort of acknowledgment if you had.” Tamoeth glanced at the medical droid. “Find 55-B-12. Bring the rods.”

“You did state that the prisoner was not to be harmed,” the older TH unit said in a chiding voice. Tamoeth allowed it such rebellion because it had not once ever disobeyed an order.

Tamoeth smiled. “It is a very temporary harm, is it not?”

Neural rods were one of his favorite discoveries, their use inspired by an ancient object in Sidious’s possession. They were thin rods with the look and strength of durasteel, but were in fact neither. The rods were the most delicate of neural interfaces, capable of projecting sensation into the victim’s nervous system, where it would be translated accordingly by the brain.

Tamoeth told Venge all of this while he circled the room with calm, sedate steps. In truth, he could not move quickly—not often, at least—but he’d learned that his lack of hurry often incited suspicion and fear. TH-11 and his assistant 55 removed Venge’s shirt sleeves to the elbow, then boots, then trousers up to the knee. There was a very interesting scar on Venge’s right leg; he wondered what had caused it.

Tamoeth held up the first of the silver rods, allowing his eye to focus on its delicate, needle-sharp point. “Still no curiosity?” he asked Venge. “Very well.”

When 55 inserted the first rod into Venge’s right forearm, the man gasped at the intrusion. Then he clenched his jaw shut, breath coming in sharp intakes of air, and stared Tamoeth in the face.

Tamoeth watched with a clinical eye as the rest of the rods were inserted. The last two were the smallest, all but needles in truth. Those, the droids placed on either side of Venge’s vertebrae on the back of his neck.

In Venge’s eyes, Tamoeth could read fierce certainty, but it was not the murderous sort of anger he had hoped to invoke. “Interesting,” he murmured. “Finish sealing those wounds,” he instructed the droids. “It seems I will need to give this matter some thought.”

“Take your time,” Venge said as Tamoeth made to leave.

Tamoeth turned around, curious. The man’s eyes were too-bright, but he was _smiling,_ an upcurl of the lip that was mocking defiance.

 _Ah,_ Tamoeth thought, thrilled by the true sense of unease the Sith had just evoked. _Now I see why he chose you._

“None of those will do,” Tamoeth said, entering the secure room directly across from the detention cell.

Tanakk looked up and grunted a query. “I don’t believe that pain will be the path to gaining us what we want.”

“You mean what Isard wants,” Tiritha muttered, still sulking over her lack of trophy.

“Isard thinks small,” Tamoeth said, dismissive. “She wants another leashed attack dog. I want a _leader._ ”

“And you think pain will not give us either,” Tiritha said. She was rolling the Sith device around on the table, as if it were not a six-thousand-year-old artifact. Truth be told, it could probably survive the detonation of a star, but Tamoeth hated the lack of respect.

“Not pain by itself, no.” Tamoeth glared at his sister until she placed the artifact in the center of the table and made quite a show of drawing her hands away from it. “There must be a psychological component. Perhaps more than one.”

Tanakk grunted. “Yes, I am aware that pain is also a psychological component,” Tamoeth replied. “Sidious misjudged Venge’s reaction to pain, and to certain stimuli. I will not do the same.”

Tamoeth glanced down at his hands. His fingernails were stark white with a hint of green, despite his dark skin. Half of his left hand was still shiny flesh, the old burn preserved along with the rest of him.

“I have it,” he said a moment later, his mood brightening. “Brother, do you recall the black-handled knife we found among Venge’s belongings?” Tanakk nodded. “Good. Fetch it, please. Sister, I would like for you to retrieve two things and bring them to Lord Venge’s cell. The first is Codex Two-Fourteen from the archives; it should be towards the back.”

Tiritha seemed curious but not intrigued. She had been younger, then, and would not know what the Codex contained. “And the second?” she asked.

“Bring your new favorite commander,” Tamoeth said. “I would like to see how our guest responds to a familiar face.”

 

*          *          *          *

 

Naasade was not happy with his new command post. He hadn’t expected to be, but this place was carved straight from some fresh hell. It all seemed to be built to Imperial naval standard, but there was an overbearing creepiness in the air that made it hard to sleep.

Not that he would have been sleeping much, regardless. He had plans to make, layouts to memorize, and codes to obtain from computers that had never been taught to lock out higher-ranking officers from those early days of the Empire, no matter what kind of officer they happened to be.

That was one of the things he could pin down about the creepiness. Imperial efficiency was legendary, but somehow had never gotten this far into the Deep Core. Everything looked correct and proper, but underneath the surface, there was rot and rank Darkness.

Tiritha left him alone for a solid twenty-six hours, which was a relief after the flight. Then she came for him in the middle of what was supposed to be his off-shift with a distracted command of, “Follow me.”

She allowed him the five minutes needed to suit up properly, and then led him down one of the corridors. He wasn’t permitted in this section of the complex, which was just one more aspect of how messed up this place was. What kind of Imperial base wouldn’t let stormtroopers and officers into the detention area?

Oh, _fuck_.

Officers weren’t let into detention areas manned by sadistic fucking Sith who did their own interrogating. The two medical droids in the room were not standard models for healing, but of the Empire’s own design, meant to keep interrogation victims alive and breathing for as long as possible.

Naasade looked at Kenobi and bit down hard on his tongue to keep from making any damned sound that would betray him. If he hadn’t deliberately tested his shields around Darth Vader himself, he would have panicked, certain that he’d been identified. Instead, he noted the expressions on the faces of all three Adepts before stationing himself just inside the door in a proper guard pose.

“Has he still not asked what we will be using the neural rods for?" Tiritha purred.

Naasade noted the filaments of wire that ran from reddened, badly healed wounds at the Jedi’s wrists and feet, and thought, _Nothing good_. There were more wires coming from the back of the Jedi’s neck, and all of them were slotted into a shining black device that looked like an upside-down planting pot. There was a slot at the top, just large enough for whatever Tiritha held, and vague impressions of carved figures. The device should have looked absurd, but it radiated an air of menace that almost drowned out the danger coming from the three Adepts.

“He hasn’t asked, no, but I don’t mind telling him,” Tamoeth said, sounding like a smug prick. “The Sith long ago learned how to capture the empathic projections of those in pain. They would store these individual agonies in crystals, like the one my sister carries. There are far more esoteric ways to use this device in order to afflict stored pain upon a victim, but the neural rods do the job just as effectively.

“Still nothing to say?” Tamoeth smiled. “No matter.”

Naasade dared another look at the Jedi, a bad feeling twisting in his gut. He’d seen the Jedi go that quiet before, and that was when things had always, always gone to complete shit.

Tamoeth drew forth a knife, one with a simple black handle and a silver blade. It looked like the decent sort of boot-knife you could buy on dozens of different worlds. “You carry this with you. Do you know what it is, and what it does?”

The Jedi maintained his stubborn silence. Tanakk grunted expressively. “No, brother, he isn’t making fun of you,” Tamoeth soothed him. “Lord Venge merely wants to retain the upper hand for as long as possible.”

“Come here,” Tamoeth ordered. Naasade swallowed once, boxed up every care, concern, and feeling he’d ever had, and stepped forward.

“Sir.”

Tamoeth’s eyes flickered over to him once, but his gaze was focused predominantly on the Jedi. “Remove your helmet, Commander. I want to see if a familiar face will make our guest more vocal.” Naasade felt a dizzying spike of fear before Tamoeth said, “It used to be one of millions, after all.”

 _Bastard,_ Naasade seethed, and then pulled his helmet and tucked it under his arm as if the situation were normal. “This face is quite a bit different from the old standard model, sir.”

“Prettier scars,” Tiritha said, as Naasade allowed himself to glance at the Jedi. Kenobi gave him a brief look and then turned his attention back to Tamoeth without a flicker of recognition or acknowledgement.

The man always did have one hell of a Sabacc face.

“No? Too bad.” Tamoeth whirled around on his feet, faster than Naasade expected. The knife was in the air, slicing down.

Naasade tried to raise his arm to block it, but couldn’t move. Someone’s Force grip had frozen him in place. He was going to wind up with a shitty knife piercing his heart. Fucking Adepts—

“Don’t.”

Tamoeth stilled the knife when it was only centimeters from carving through the gap in Naasade’s armor plating. “Why not?” the Adept asked the Jedi.

There was still no hint of recognition in Kenobi’s eyes, but there was a bit of concern. “Because I don’t know what it would do to him.”

Tamoeth smiled, victorious. “Tell me what it does, Lord Venge.”

“It’s a binding spell. Sith blood magic. I’m surprised you didn’t know already,” the Jedi explained. If before his expression had been cool disinterest, now Naasade would classify it as angry exhaustion.

“Our Master imparted wisdom to those he thought would find it most useful, not to all of his students,” Tamoeth said.

“Not my Master,” Kenobi replied flatly.

Tamoeth ignored the comment. “Does it work?”

The Jedi lifted his head. “Yes.”

Tiritha made a pleased sound. Her brother’s smile was all teeth. “Have you seen it? Is it as beautiful as the legends say?”

For a brief moment, the Jedi looked nonplussed, which matched how Naasade felt. “I have not witnessed its use.”

“Hmm.” Tamoeth ran his thumb along the edge of the blade, but even Naasade could see the care he took not to break the skin. “What purpose was it created for? Be honest, please. I could still bury this knife in an aging clone, despite my sister’s wishes.”

For some reason, that made the Jedi smile. “It was a contingency measure for a powerful Sith Lord.”

“I see,” Tamoeth said, and gestured at the shiny black artifact. “Sister, if you would please deposit Codex Two-Fourteen.”

Tiritha, gleeful, dropped the crystal into the device with a solid-sounding _click._ The rock began to glow at once, not white as the crystal’s color implied, but a dull, sickly green.

Naasade didn’t have to wait to find out what it did. The Jedi went rigid, pulling against the restraints that bound him in place. Whatever pain it caused him, it wasn’t long before the Jedi’s head went back, teeth gritted, the cords on his neck standing out.

Naasade closed his eyes. He didn’t have to actually witness it.

He couldn’t avoid the screaming.

It was not the sound he’d heard caused by scan grids, or by troopers who were too enthusiastic with their stun prods. This was high and shrill, the sound of a man in the sort of pain that Naasade always equated with fatal injuries.

It took too fucking long before the screaming stopped, replaced by the deep, rasping gasps of someone who’d just been pushed far beyond their endurance. Naasade opened his eyes. The Jedi was slumped against his restraints, chest heaving as he tried to breathe. The lack of physical damage should have been reassuring, but instead it was just unsettling.

“How did he do?” Tamoeth asked.

The older of the two medical droids spoke in a grating, unpleasant voice. “Severe muscular stress and lactic acid buildup, which would be detrimental over a long period of time. Blood pressure is high, partially due to the former, which will lead to increased risk of bleeding in the brain. Repeated applications of Codex Two-Fourteen would also result in significant micro-fractures of the skeleton, tearing of ligaments, and damage to all joints.”

Tiritha made a tsk-ing sound. “That does not sound like a lack of damage, brother. What is Codex Two-Fourteen?”

Tamoeth was smiling, his gaze riveted on the Jedi. “The empathic resonance capture of one who was burned alive. But you already knew that, didn’t you?”

The Jedi lifted his head. Naasade was rocked by the sight and desperately trying to pretend otherwise. There was raw grief in Kenobi’s eyes, punctuated by the tears that were running down his face.

The spark of rage was disquieting, but not all that surprising.

“I knew I had guessed correctly.” Tamoeth let out a pleased sigh. “But my sister is right. I do not wish you permanently damaged. Thus…”

Naasade flinched when Tamoeth raised his arm, but he wasn’t the target, not this time. The Sith Adept buried the blade in the Jedi’s body, just above the collar bone on his left side. Kenobi gasped in pain, but then he froze in place, as if captured in some Sith’s invisible grasp.

Naasade watched in horror as glowing green light began to ooze out of the wound’s entry point with the first upwelling of blood. The green light spread out, turning into individual, headache-inducing glyphs that seemed to brand themselves on the Jedi’s exposed skin.

Binding. Literal, magic-driven binding.

“Fuck me,” Naasade whispered, terrified. Maul, Dooku, Savage, Sidious—none of them had ever done anything like this.

“It _is_ beautiful,” Tiritha said happily. “I’d hoped it would be.”

The medical droid just sounded resigned. “You could not have accomplished this without stabbing my patient?”

“Stab wounds can be healed.” Tamoeth was studying the Jedi with an intensity that bordered on zealousness. “The chemical inhibitors would have worn off soon, and there was a risk that Lord Venge would have subverted them even before that time. But this? Blood magic fueled by yet more blood? No, this will be much more efficient. Run the Codex again, Tiritha.”

The fucking knife didn’t keep the Jedi from being able to scream, which made the second run of the Codex so much worse than the first. The Jedi couldn’t move, not for the entire six minutes it apparently took for someone to burn to death.

The binding spell didn’t keep the Jedi from being aware, either. His eyes were wide, silvered pools. Naasade had a bad feeling that one of the emotions reflected there was pure blind panic.

“Dismissed, Commander,” Tamoeth said, after the Codex was done. Naasade was trying to cope with the realization that the Jedi wouldn’t even be able to rest. The binding spell wouldn’t allow it, and he didn’t think the Sith would be that fucking thoughtful. “Thank you for your participation.”

“Sir,” Naasade managed to say. He wasn’t sure how; all of the moisture in his mouth and throat was utterly gone.

When the door sealed behind him, leaving the Jedi inside with the Adepts, Naasade’s shoulders slumped. Fuck. Fuck, they were going to break him.

This was no longer something he could handle on his own. He needed help.

 

*          *          *          *

 

It started before they arrived at the edge of Deep Core space, but it took a while for Rex to put the pieces together. By the time he did, it was almost too fucking late.

Rex was standing in the cockpit doorway while Skywalker and Jade stared at the dense star field. “Any ideas?” Jade asked, rubbing her upper arms. Rex didn’t think it was that cold in the ship, but he was still wearing half of his armor, so it was hard to gauge.

“Just…that way,” Skywalker replied, pointing up and towards the left. “Nothing more specific than that.”

Jade nodded her agreement. “We can jump about one hundred light years in that direction and drop out again. We might have a clearer idea by then.”

“Maybe even less than that,” Skywalker said. “Deep Core is hard to navigate if you don’t have specific coordinates. Seventy-five light years, maybe, and even that will take a while.”

Jade frowned. “Push it to eighty, Skywalker.”

“Eighty light years it is.” Skywalker turned to the navicomp. “Fuck, this could take days.”

Rex grimaced. They’d already been at it for four straight days of travel, and the Adepts were at least twelve hours ahead of them. “We’ll have to make up the time somehow.”

“Not sure how we’ll do it, though,” Skywalker muttered. “No gravity wells like the Maw to sling ourselves around.”

“I am not actually in the mood to flirt with a black hole, thank you,” Jade retorted, and got up. Rex let her pass by and then followed, leaving Skywalker to figure out how to get them eighty light years into Deep Core space without hitting a star. Pissed off at the man or not, Skywalker was still the best person for the job.

The Noghri team was using old Imperial accessways, trying to determine if there were any Imperial installations in the Deep Core that were not already well-known. Maybe they would have better luck, or at least give them a clue that could speed up the trip.

In the main hold, Tano was field-stripping her second lightsaber, for want of anything better to do. “My lightsabers will be very, very clean before this flight is done,” she said, after Rex told her their potential flight time.

Wolffe was doing the same thing with his rifle, humming under his breath while he stripped it down to its component parts. _“Su cuy’gar ad’ika, gar yaim dar’tome…”_

“Not one of your usual choices,” Rex said, taking a seat across from him at the table.

“It was on my mind,” Wolffe replied absently, and went back to what he was doing.

Skywalker came in after Rex felt the ship’s jolt from the jump to hyperspace. “Six hours for eighty lightyears,” he announced, irritated, and then looked at Jade. “Hey, are you all right?”

Jade, in the middle of rubbing her arms again, dropped her hands. “Fine,” she answered. “I think four days trapped in this tin can is starting to get to me.”

“Yeah.” Skywalker glanced around at the weapons being disassembled. “Sure, why not,” he said, and went to retrieve a small bag, the only thing he’d brought aboard the ship aside from himself and an oversized cloak. He didn’t try to fight for table space, but laid out the cloak on the floor next to Tano and sat down on it.

Watching Skywalker pull lightsabers out of that bag looked like someone’s twisted idea of a magic trick. “How many fucking lightsabers are you carrying?” Rex asked, while Tano eyed her old Master like he’d finally done something offensive.

Skywalker grinned. “Four,” he said, laying out the hilts in a row on the brown cloak. One was his, two were black-handled, curved twins that reminded Rex eerily of Ventress, and the fourth one…

“That’s Kenobi’s lightsaber,” Rex said, touching the one that was still attached to his belt. “The one from the war.”

Skywalker nodded. “Actually, all three of these are his. I just had to go and, uh, reacquire our originals.”

“What did _that_ entail?” Wolffe wanted to know.

“Let’s just say that Vader made really shitty choices when it came to places to live,” Skywalker replied.

Curious, Rex left his seat at the table and crouched down next to Skywalker. He unclipped the lightsaber from Lothal and put it next to the others. The twin hilts, the war lightsaber, and the leather-wrapped hilt were each so different it was hard to believe they’d all been built by the same Jedi. “What’s the deal with these?” he asked, tapping the two black hilts. He half-expected some hint of sourness, but there was nothing—just solid metal beneath his fingertips.

“Obi-Wan was working on becoming more proficient at Jar’Kai. I didn’t have my own lightsaber, so I was carrying that set when we got booted from Mortis.”

“I’m still having trouble with the story you told us,” Tano admitted.

Rex was in that camp, too. Hells, one of the only things that had made that story even remotely believable was the fact that Jade had taken it seriously.

“It is the epitome of weird Jedi shit,” Skywalker acknowledged.

Tano smiled and picked up the leather-wrapped lightsaber. “Ohhh. Oh, wow. That’s incredible.”

“Five-thousand-year-old Adegans,” Skywalker told her, grinning, and Tano’s eyes widened.

“I wouldn’t want to be eleven again for all the credits in the galaxy,” Rex said, as Tano placed the lightsaber back down with the others. Wolffe snorted his agreement. “Which, gotta say, that’s probably the weirdest element out of all of the crazy things you mentioned.”

“It wasn’t so bad when I didn’t remember most of this.” Skywalker was still smiling, but there was no real happiness in the expression. “And no offense, because I do love you guys, but I could have gone the rest of my life _without_ remembering it. No one wants to wake up to the realization that they were once a mass-murdering bastard.”

“Anakin,” Tano whispered, resting her hand on his knee.

“Well, maybe Sidious wants to,” Skywalker said, a distressed look on his face. “I imagine he kind of gets off on waking up to that realization every day.”

Rex sighed. “Please stop making me think about that man wanking.”

Skywalker uttered a short but genuine laugh while Rex and Tano glanced at each other. _It’s not fair,_ Ahsoka whispered, her mental voice so faint that Rex doubted Skywalker would notice unless he was listening for it.

 _No, it’s not_. If all of this shit was true—and Rex really had no reason to doubt it, it was too fucking _nuts_ —then Kenobi and Skywalker were going to have to kill that Sith prick for a second damned time. Maybe the third or fourth time, given that creepy body-hopping bit.

They were five minutes out from the hyperspace drop when Rex gave in and started dismantling his pistols. Even if they were jumped on return to realspace, he could slap them back together in less than thirty seconds. _“Ke’duumir gar’au’re bah shukur gar, de’duumir gar’au’re bah shukur gar.”_

“What’s that?” Jade asked. “It sounds familiar.”

“It’s Mando’a,” Rex said. “Orphan’s War Chant. Kenobi was singing it to some of the kids the night before the battle, and I guess it decided to stick.” He glanced up at her. “You don’t look so good, Jade.”

Jade was naturally pale, like Kenobi, but her skin looked whiter than it should have, and she’d been shifting restlessly for the last few minutes. “I’m not feeling well,” she admitted.

“Med kit on this bucket?” Rex asked.

Jade nodded. “There is, but nothing’s helping. I think it’s just a desperate need for fresh air.”

“Could be,” Rex said. “To tell the truth, I haven’t felt that great for the last few hours, either.”

Jade smiled. “It would be ridiculous to go on a rescue mission with a blasted headcold, wouldn’t it?”

“Wouldn’t be the first time. It’s a pain in the ass to try to read a HUD when you’ve just sneezed all over it.” Rex grinned when Jade covered her mouth to laugh.

Jade and Skywalker looked out at empty space during the next hyperspace drop, then at each other. “That way,” they both said at the same time, pointing towards a red dwarf star off in the distance.

Tano was rubbing at her montrals by the time the ship was back in hyperspace. “You all right, Commander?” Wolffe asked her.

Tano sighed. “I have such a headache.”

“Shit.” Skywalker looked guilty. “That might be me, sorry. I’ll try to shield it better.”

“You too, huh?” Tano grimaced in sympathy when Skywalker nodded. “I’m going to go try to fit in one of those ridiculous bunks. Anyone want to join me for a nap?”

“I’m game,” Wolffe said, standing up and stretching.   “How long, Skywalker?”

“About three hours, which will give you ten minutes before the next drop,” Skywalker answered. He was rubbing his forehead, eyes narrowed in pain. “Man, is there something toxic on this ship?”

“Life support is solid green,” Jade said absently, leaning back in her seat and closing her eyes.

“I’m going to run a diagnostic anyway.” Skywalker headed back to the cockpit.

Rex picked up Wolffe’s datapad and tried to focus enough to read. He didn’t have a headache, like the others were complaining about, but damn, his joints ached. He usually didn’t have to deal with that nonsense unless he was stuck on a planet that thought monsoons were a good idea.

 _Though we may die, and we may bleed, the sky will sing of everything_ —

Rex shook his head and pinched the bridge of his nose. No, that wasn’t even what the fucking text said. It was the blasted news feeds, not an angst fest.

“The sky will sing, of everything,” he heard in a soft, clear voice.

Rex jerked his head up and stared at Jade. “We will not fade away,” he finished with her. “What the hell?”

Jade stared back at him. “It’s the Lothal—one of their war chants. Grey and Ben wrote at least half of it.”

“I don’t know that song, Jade. I’ve never heard it before in my life.”

“Someone in the tunnels must have been singing it,” Jade said, but Rex shook his head.

Headaches. Joint pain.

“Skywalker!” he roared, tossing the datapad aside. “Get your ass in here!”

Skywalker slid into the hold within three seconds, which meant Force-enhanced speed. “What? What the hell is it?”

“We’re all singing the same damned songs, Skywalker,” Rex said. “Please tell me that doesn’t mean what I think it means.”

Rex knew he was right when Skywalker’s eyes went wide. “Fuck,” he whispered, and then whirled on Jade. “Mara! Do you know how to fucking shield yet?”

Jade glared up at Skywalker. “Yes, I know how to shield. Stop shouting at me.”

Skywalker gritted his teeth. “No, I mean—do you know how to _really_ shield, the sort of blocks that keep you from picking up anything except for the fact that you and the Force both exist?”

Jade’s eyebrows drew together as she considered it. “Maybe. It’s been a while since I’ve needed to be able to do that.”

“Practice,” Skywalker advised. “Right now, and if you don’t think you can get it right, tell me, or Tano. We don’t have much time. Snips!” he yelled. “You and Wolffe need to get out here!”

Tano came out first, flinching away from the bright lights of the hold. Wolffe must have managed to fall asleep, given the ferocious scowl on his face. He hated interrupted naps. “Skywalker, what the hell?”

“They’re torturing him,” Skywalker said, and swallowed. “That’s why we’ve all had the same song on our minds at the same time. I heard you muttering lyrics earlier and it didn’t even occur to me that I was already thinking about them.”

Wolffe straightened out of his irritated slump. “Kenobi’s broadcasting?”

“No, not intentionally.” Skywalker wrapped his arms around himself. “His shields are failing.”

Fuck. Rex felt the spit in his mouth dry up. “His shields didn’t fail on Raku.”

“No.” Skywalker glanced at him. “Whatever the Adepts are doing to him, it has to be—it’s pretty damned bad.”

“What do we do?” Tano asked.

“You guys are going to shield like your lives depend upon it,” Skywalker replied. “And I’m…I’m not.”

Tano’s head jerked up. “Anakin!”

“We can _use this_ ,” Skywalker insisted in a low voice, though he already seemed to be in a lot more pain than before. “When his shields come down, I can find Obi-Wan. We’ll be able to fly right to him.”

“And if he’s in that much pain, you could be swamped by it,” Jade snapped. “Then you’d be useless to us, and we still won’t know where he is.”

Skywalker shrugged, giving them all a lopsided smile. “Hey, I’ve been set on fire. How much worse can it be?”

 

*          *          *          *

 

Naasade had always hated those points in a mission when he’d been stuck waiting on someone else to set plans into motion. He’d been a damned good soldier, and hid it well, but some days he’d wanted to break his fucking rifle in half, if only to shorten the wait and get the hell on with things.

Those moments had always seemed endless, like they were the worst thing in the world. Then he’d awoken one day in an Alliance surgical wing without an inhibitor chip. So many damned things had come crashing down on his head at once that medical had spent a few days convinced that a forced retirement might be the best thing for him. After that, those seemingly endless waits hadn’t seemed so bad, not when unceasing reality was so much worse.

Maybe the Alliance didn’t expect penance from him, but Naasade was damned well convinced that the universe required it. Unceasing reality of his own making was bad, and often drove him directly into a bottle.

The pain from the Adept-created reality that kept crashing over him was so gods-awful that it was effort to remember that he couldn’t just chew on the end of a blaster to make it stop.

Naasade twisted around in his bunk, his hands clasped uselessly over his ears. He was at least a quarter-klik from the detention area and he could _still hear it_.

All of the old jokes among his brothers. Midichlorian infestations.   Something in the water. Shoddy genetics, the same sorts of genome slips that had created the odd genetic mutation in hair and eye color.

There had been brothers who’d picked up on hearing their Jedi easier than others. Some had never quite managed to hear anything at all, but if you’d asked a brother where their Jedi was on the field, he would always point in the right direction.

_The more time you spend with Jedi, the more it seems like these blasted midichlorians wake up and start paying attention._

He was supposed to be reporting in. He’d set up the encryption hours ago.

He couldn’t get out of his fucking bunk.

He could feel what the Adepts were doing to Kenobi. It was unceasing fire underneath his skin, the shock-burn of molten heat that could not be escaped—and he knew that this was not the full strength of Codex 214. This was only a broadcasted echo, one that had gotten progressively worse with each passing moment.

His head was pounding; his teeth ached from how long he’d been clenching his jaw. His joints screamed, and every breath he took felt like a dry rasp.

This could not actually go on. It could not. There had to be a break, or this stupid mission would be a miserable fucking failure.

When the break came, it almost killed him.

 

*          *          *          *

 

Wolffe stared at Skywalker, which was pretty much what they were all doing. The man was sitting in full lotus, and he looked comfortable enough—at least if you ignored the twisted grimace on his face, and the way both hands were clenching his knees hard enough to bruise.

“You doing all right?” Rex asked him, sitting down next to Wolffe.

“Head still hurts,” Wolffe grumbled. “I’m doing better than he is, though.”

“Talk to me, Master,” Tano ordered. She was standing with her arms crossed, gazing down at Skywalker with a determined set to her mouth.

“Still here,” Skywalker replied, without opening his eyes. “Everyone else?”

“Wolffe is right about the headache,” Jade said, though she looked a lot better than she had an hour ago.

“And no song lyrics in my head, either. What the hell was that about?” Wolffe asked.

“Kenobi said that was how he dealt with Rattatak,” Rex answered. “More torture,” he clarified, when Wolffe gave him a questioning look.

“It was something to think about aside from dying,” Skywalker added, brows drawing together. “He’s doing a lot better about Rattatak if he actually mentioned that.”

Jade’s hand was resting next to her blaster. “How is that temper of yours, Skywalker?”

Skywalker smiled, hard-edged. “You mean, am I going to Sith out?”

“That’s a terrible fucking way to put it,” Rex said.

“It kind of is, yeah.” Skywalker took a breath and let it out. Some of his discomfort eased, but not all of it. “But please remember that there is a hell of a difference between Dark and _evil_. Dark and insane, too, for that matter. Right, Jade?”

Jade raised an eyebrow. “I’ve never channeled so much Dark energy that it made my eyes glow in the dark.”

Wolffe glanced over at his brother when Rex shifted in place. Rex suddenly looked very uncomfortable, but he didn’t appear to be in the mood to talk.

Skywalker’s head jerked up and back. His eyes opened wide, but his gaze was unfocused.

“Anakin?” Tano called hesitantly.

“I have _got_ to learn to keep my mouth shut,” Skywalker whispered, just before he screamed like a man being torn to shreds.

 

*          *          *          *

 

“Hey, guys! If it isn’t Mister Jedi Knight himself!” Hobbie yelled.

Luke smiled as half of Rogue Squadron chimed in on Hobbie Kilvan’s greeting. “Knock it off, guys.”

“What are you doing down here in the dredges with the rest of us stick jockeys, ex-Boss?” Wedge Antilles asked him, lowering his datapad so that he could grin at Luke.

“I’m sensing a lot of bitterness from someone who just got a promotion,” Luke said, dropping his bag on the nearest bench. “I’m shocked. Shocked, I say.”

“I didn’t want the promotion,” Wedge complained. “Next thing you know, they’ll try to make me a general.” He said the last part as if it was a dirty word.

“Well, then you can join General Solo’s bitching sessions,” Luke told him, sitting down next to Tycho Celchu, who smiled and handed him a bottle of…of something. Luke gave the alcohol a dubious sniff and then raised an eyebrow at Tycho.

Tycho shrugged. “We don’t know either, but nobody’s died yet, so it can’t be all that bad.”

Luke took a drink, coughed, and then glared at Tycho. “If I’m the first to die from this rot, I’m haunting you.”

“Fair enough,” Tycho said, and opened a new bottle for himself.

Luke glanced around the room. Most of the faces were all familiar; he’d met the new additions to Rogue Squadron months ago: Corran Horn, Bror Jace, Colonel Fel, Andoorni Hui, Ooryl Qrygg, Nawara Ven, Rhysati Ynr, and Gavin Darklighter, who looked so much like his older brother that sometimes Luke did a double-take, wondering if he was being followed around by another ghost.

He just hadn’t expected to find another Force sensitive among the new pilots. “Hi, Corran.”

Corran lifted his hand in a brief wave. “Still undecided on the Jedi bit.”

Luke smiled. “I wasn’t actually going to ask. I didn’t want to push.”

“No, but I feel like I _should_ be making a damned decision,” Corran said, looking frustrated. “I’m just really not in a hurry to suddenly climb up near the top of the Imperial’s most wanted list.”

“You are really in the wrong group, then,” Tycho pointed out, which made the others laugh. Rogue Squadron members automatically earned a higher bounty than any other pilots in the Alliance.

It was good to see the ranks full, but there were a lot of times when he couldn’t stop seeing the faces that were missing. Wedge Antilles, Hobbie Klivian, Wes Janson, and Tycho Celchu were all who were left from the old days aside from himself. Sometimes Luke thought it was so unfair that the list of deceased Rogues was so long. Other days he was sort of baffled by the fact that any of them had survived at all.

“I’m counting fourteen of you, not twelve,” Luke said, to cover up the familiar pang of grief. “Did you guys go out and kidnap pilots from other squadrons again?”

“Well, you kind of missed the restructure,” Wedge said, and Hobbie snickered.

“You got us promoted, too,” Hobbie explained when Luke looked at him. “Myself and Wes were bumped up to command of our own squads.”

“Unlike Sir Whine over there, we’re enjoying it,” Wes said, smirking.

Wedge smiled. “Don’t listen to them. They’ve been panicking about being Lead for sixteen straight hours.”

“Congratulations, guys. You deserve it, and I mean it. No promotion for you, though?” Luke asked Tycho.

Tycho shrugged. “Half of High Command still thinks I’m spying for Isard.”

“That’s ridiculous,” Luke said flatly. He’d vetted the man himself, and if that meant nothing to High Command, what was the point of even asking him to do anything?

“We’ve had more than three sleeper agents turn up in the last few months,” Gavin said. “They’re paranoid.”

Rhysati nodded. “We know better.”

“It’s hard to convince Command that you’ve jumped ship even without Isard’s influence,” Fel said, crossing his arms in a show of irritation. Luke glanced at the man in surprise; most of the time, Soontir Fel wouldn’t say a word to anyone unless someone spoke to him, first.

Wedge pulled another bottle from a bin of ice. “Ridiculous is definitely the right word. Used to be when you jumped ship, the Alliance would welcome you with open arms and put you to work. Now you have to conclusively prove that you’re not still hard-up for the Empire.”

“I still get grief from them about loyalty, and I wasn’t even an Imp,” Corran said, shaking his head. “It’s not easy.”

“Sure it is,” one of the two new pilots said, giving Corran a sour look. “Die in combat. That’ll convince them.”

“I’d personally like to get through a full six months without any of you people managing to get yourselves killed.” Wedge glanced at Luke, who could only nod in response. Within a year of Endor, they’d lost half of the squad’s roster. Luke had stepped aside to make sure Wedge had Lead, but some days it felt like he’d abandoned them.

 _Maybe it’s time for a change of subject._ “Come on, introduce me,” Luke said to Wedge. “You have to tell me when we get new people, Wedge.”

“Since when? Didn’t you quit?” Wedge shot back.

“Yes, but I’m nosy,” Luke countered.

The same mystery pilot looked at Corran again. “I like him.”

“You’re not allowed to like the Jedi.” The new female pilot next to him was smiling. “I called dibs.”

“This is Avan Beruss and Erisi Dlarit,” Wedge said, while Luke tried not to stare at the woman in complete dismay. He was…not opposed to dating, exactly, but the idea of being claimed via pecking order and random declarations wasn’t appealing in the slightest. “Beruss, Dlarit, this is Ex-Boss.”

Luke pointed at Wedge. “The next time I fly with you guys, I want that to be my call sign.”

“It’s nice to meet you sir,” Beruss said, after treating Dlarit to an annoyed glare.

Luke smiled. “Don’t call me sir, Beruss. I resigned my commission, which is why your ranking officers are giving me grief.”

Dlarit grinned at him, bright-eyed in a way that made Luke uneasy. “What do you call a Jedi, then?”

“I’m rather fond of my name,” Luke replied, taking another sip of what he thought might have been ale. Han would know at first taste, but Han was out on another “I’m an idiot, why did I agree to be a General?” assignment with Chewbacca and the rest of his command crew. Leia was with them, as acting diplomatic representative for yet another attempt at courting planets for Alliance membership. Or New Republic. Whatever name they were going with, anyway.

He had to push back an immediate stab of melancholy. He hadn’t seen any of them since Midnor. Leia pointedly hadn’t said a word when Luke resigned his commission. Han was envious of the decision, but Han also did not want to earn Leia’s wrath by resigning his rank on the same day.

Chewbacca just thought they were all ridiculous, but that was pretty much standard.

“What are you doing down here, anyway?” Wes asked. “We’ve seen you more since you quit than when you were technically still our commander.”

Luke narrowed his eyes. “Low blow, Janson.” He’d been following orders, just like the rest of the Rogues…which was part of the reason why he’d decided that enough was enough.

Wes grinned. “If you’re here to spar, that’s off-limits. I want to have kids one day.”

“Physical sparring, or verbal?” Luke asked.

“Both,” Hobbie said. “I don’t fight men with bionics. It’s a blatant cheat.”

Luke bit back a smile. “I could take it off and beat you into the ground with the stump of my arm.”

“See? You see what I mean?” Hobbie exclaimed, and then stole Wes’s ale when he realized his own bottle was empty.

“Everyone else is still treating you like glass, huh?” Wedge asked sympathetically.

Luke sighed and nodded. “They’re either afraid they’ll break the Alliance’s prize Jedi, or they’re afraid that I’ll break them, instead.”

“Well, you are the man who defeated Vader,” Gavin pointed out.

“Not by punching him,” Luke returned dryly. He’d given up on trying to correct people’s misconceptions about who had defeated whom on the second Death Star. They either believed him, or they didn’t—and a lot of folks fell into the latter category.

“You slugging Darth Vader in the face. There’s a mental image that’s going to stick with me for a while,” Bror said.

Wedge gave Luke a look of complete understanding. Only a few of the Rogues knew who Darth Vader had once been. Luke didn’t actually appreciate the jokes about his defeat of his own father, but hell, what was he supposed to say? Leia wasn’t comfortable with her parentage being known, and since it was getting to be common knowledge that the two of them were siblings…

Tycho put down his ale and held out his hand, clenched in a fist. “Don’t worry, Ex-Boss. I’ll beat the shit out of you.”

Luke bumped Tycho’s fist with his own. “Not if I break you in half first, Celchu.”

“Staff, bare-handed sparring? Lightsaber?” Dlarit asked, rattling off options.

Luke and Tycho turned to stare at the woman with identical expressions of disbelief. “I’m not sparring against Ex-Boss with a lightsaber until I get one of my own,” Tycho said, wide-eyed.

“That had better be a toy lightsaber,” Wedge warned him. “Only one Rogue per generation is allowed to lose limbs to a lightsaber fight.”

Tycho threw up his arms in exasperation. “Geeze, Mom! You never let me have any fun!”

Luke laughed, shaking his head. This was why he came down into the dredges of whatever cruiser the Rogues were stationed on. His fellow stick-jockeys never treated him like he was made of glass, or that he would be hurt by indelicate words. It made him feel like he was still grounded in the real world—something he thought a Jedi needed, even if Yoda might not have agreed.

He stripped down to a sleeveless shirt, then shucked his boots and left them by the bench with the rest of his things. His lightsaber wound up on top of the bag, in full view. It was safe among the Rogues, who knew better than to go poking at weapons that emitted controlled plasma blades. They saved their curiosity for ship parts, explosives, and unlabeled alcohol.

Tycho walked around on the training mat in his bare feet. “Don’t actually break me in half, okay? I have a date tonight.”

“Does she know it?” Luke asked, mimicking Tycho’s opening stance.

“Targeter knows _everything_ ,” Tycho replied, and then kicked out with his foot, arm already raised to block.

Luke evaded him easily, letting Tycho set the pattern of blows—a warmup exercise, not an open fight. He didn’t really want one of those, but Tycho liked to push sometimes, trying to get better. Luke had yet to meet an Alderaanian that didn’t want to be utterly unbeatable in combat. It was understandable post-traumatic stress. Even Leia was prone to it.

“Hey, are you all right?” Tycho asked him, when the second warmup round was done.

Luke blinked a few times, realizing that he’d zoned out and stopped keeping track of time. Technically, he’d performed a perfect spar, but it must have been obvious that his focus was elsewhere. “Sorry. My head’s been hurting for a few hours now. I was hoping that exercise would do something about it.”

“Sure it’s not our shoddy beer?” Tycho asked. He stepped into the opening pose of a spar that was still a technical repetition, not an open fight, but didn’t begin until Luke nodded the okay.

He didn’t remember anything after that. Wedge told him later that he made it halfway through the spar with Tycho, but then his senses had been swamped by fire.

Literal, agonizing, _fire._

He’d once stuck a finger into a candle flame, a toddler with a toddler’s naïve curiosity. The burn had reddened his skin and made him shriek before Aunt Beru had come and towed him away from his current foolishness.

There was a flash of skin, pale skin—not his. Wires, filaments, were emerging from reddened, bruised flesh, leading to something embedded inside, and that thing _hurt_ and provided the burn that he couldn’t escape from.

_Obi-Wan!_

There was a face peering at him. Yellow eyes, glowing like the Emperor’s had aboard the Death Star. Luke had never realized it was not a trait individual to Palpatine.

“Venge,” it hissed—it, not he, that creature standing there was not alive—

_Obi-Wan, please!_

Venge. Vengeance? Vengeance for what?

He could hear screaming. There was crackling in his joints, popping like wood on a bonfire, Force, stars, what the hell was—

_MASTER! OBI-WAN, PLEASE, HEAR ME!_

_Anakin._ It was a whisper. It was so loud that it echoed in his head, a temporary override for absolute, bitter agony.

_I knew you would, I knew you could hear—take my hand, dammit! Let me find you!_

There was a fresh wash of pain that made him gasp, bile rising up in his throat. He couldn’t do this, he could not—

_I—I can’t—_

_Yes, you can!_

He felt like he couldn’t breathe. He was choking, a scream lodged in his throat that he couldn’t stop. He’d sensed thousands die in a moment, the pain of so much death, and it was nothing. It was a blink, a drop, ceaseless void—

_No, not that. Not that way, don’t you dare. You take my hand, right now!_

_I can’t. Oh, gods, Ani. I’m sorry…_

There was a rush of anger, a righteous burn that did not sear flesh. _Then I’ll do it._ Within the torment of flame, he could feel something touch him.

_Hey, wait, no don’t—_

The contact, the pain, the shouted words, all of it was gone in the next breath. Luke opened his eyes to Wedge, Jes, and Tycho’s faces staring down at him. He could hear Hobbie shouting for a fucking medic, now please, you people need to stop gawking and _help_!

Luke was stretched out on the training mat—rescue position, he thought, for someone that was in physical distress. Wedge’s hand was on his forehead. “Boss?”

“m’here,” he said, and almost gagged on the words. His throat was raw.

“He’s had some kind of fit,” Luke heard Fel say. “Skywalker and Horn both.”

“Not a fit,” Luke whispered, trying to swallow as one of the pit crew medics approached. “The Force.”

“The Force is not supposed to do that. Right?” Wes asked, when Wedge didn’t say anything and Tycho just looked green.

“Move over, Jansen,” the medic ordered, and knelt down next to Luke. “Commander. What happened?”

Oh, great. It was Janiss. He had to get something coherent out, or she was going to drop him in a bacta tank and leave him for the medical droids. “Someone was…someone was burning,” he told her, glad his voice was getting stronger.

“You?” Janiss asked, giving him a stern glare.

“No. But I really, really hurt now,” Luke admitted, and winced. “Someone help me up, please.”

Wedge and Wes helped him to sit up; Janiss slapped an anti-inflammatory patch on his left hand before he could protest. “Just in case,” she told him, and stood up. “Horn, what about you?”

“I’m fine,” Corran grumbled. He was sitting where he’d been before, but was leaning over, resting his head in his hands. Gavin was staring at Corran, trying to figure out how to help. A lot of the others appeared to be shell-shocked.

Luke swallowed again. They weren’t the only ones. “Corran, you look a lot better than I feel.”

“He didn’t get hit nearly as hard as you did,” Wedge said grimly.

“Training,” Luke murmured. Great. That was not going to convince the Corellian that being a Jedi was worth his time.

“Go on, lady,” Tycho said, when Janiss lingered, giving them all suspicious looks. “The man is fine. Right, Boss?”

Luke thought about it. “Actually, I’m really confused, but physically…yes. I’m fine.”

Confused? More like utterly mystified.

“Did you…hear any of that?” Luke asked Corran, after Janiss was gone.

“Most of it was just so much background chatter. Like listening to stellar radio waves.” Corran dropped his hands away from his face, but didn’t sit up. “I did hear a name, though.”

“Yeah.” Wedge looked at Luke. “I heard that one, too.”

“It was pretty loud. I’m surprised everyone didn’t hear it.” Luke rubbed his face with both hands.

Corran lifted his head. “What the _hell_ was that?”

“I don’t know.” He’d just listened to his father shout for Obi-Wan. He’d just felt burning pain that was not his own.

They were dead. This had to be…something from long ago. Some sort of echo.

Luke just couldn’t even begin to fathom what its purpose could be.

“Guess we’re not sparring anymore today, huh?” Tycho asked.

“No. Sorry,” Luke said, thinking that he almost had it together enough to stand up without falling over.

“That’s all right. You’re just not allowed to fall down screaming next time until _after_ I actually hit you,” Tycho said. It sounded like a joke, but all the Rogues looked too badly shaken for it to be funny.

Luke went back to his temporary quarters with a quad escort, the only Rogues aside from himself who had survived the Battle of Hoth, and then the battle against the second Death Star. The others stayed with Corran, who was getting annoyed by all the attention.

Wedge clapped him on the shoulder, his expression saying that Luke had only to call if he needed anything. Wes and Hobbie followed after him; Tycho left after giving Luke the last of the unlabeled ale.

“I know you don’t drink near as much as the rest of us crazy people,” Tycho said, his gaze serious. “But after today, if you feel the need? Bottoms up, my friend.”

“Hi, Artoo,” Luke said, when his astromech warbled a greeting as he stepped inside. “Enjoy your charge time?”

R2-D2 burbled an affirmative, and then trilled a question.

“Yeah, it was a short session.” Luke dropped his bag. “Something strange happened.”

R2’s dome swiveled before he beeped derisively.

“Yes, I know.” Luke stuffed the ale into the room’s tiny refrigeration unit. He didn’t want to drink, not right now, though he really appreciated having the option. “Strange things happen to me a lot. This was different, though.”

“How?” Luke sat down on the edge of the bunk when R2 made another questioning sound. “I don’t even know how to quantify it. It just…well, Force visions don’t normally _hurt,_ ” he said, as he realized that he was still aching from whatever the hell that had been.

“I’m okay, Artoo.” Luke patted the droid’s dome when R2 bumped into him, trying to be consoling. He’d planned on meditating, but that didn’t sound near as appealing as passing out for an hour. “I’m going to nap, and then we’ll figure out what to do with the rest of the day.”

He missed the transition into sleep. The next thing he knew, he was standing on Dagobah. The dream had translated his lack of shoes, and his socks were now cold and wet from standing on damp earth.

“Well,” Luke said, glancing around. “I guess it’s going to be that kind of day.”

“Padawan.”

Luke turned in place to find Yoda standing on a small rise, giving him enough height so that the top of his head came to Luke’s waist. It took him a moment to recognize the ancient being, as he no longer looked so ancient.

“Master.” Luke realized he was staring and tried to stop, but it wasn’t easy. Yoda without the gimer stick and the wrinkles was easy enough to swallow, but somehow he’d never gotten around to picturing his teacher with _hair._

Yoda ignored his potential rudeness, or simply didn’t notice. “So sorry, I am. Warned you, I should have, but omnipotent, the dead are not.”

It took him a moment to realize what Yoda meant. “You mean—what happened earlier. That wasn’t some sort of…fluke?”

Yoda tilted his head. “Time, there is not.”

Luke sighed. “Master, I love you dearly, but my head hurts. Please be a bit less cryptic right now.”

To his surprise, Yoda smiled at him. “Cryptic, I will not be. Came to you here, in sleep, because the Force…too chaotic, it is, to appear before you now.”

Too chaotic? Oh, the implications of that were not good. “That wasn’t just me, was it?” Yoda shook his head. “How many people experienced that—that memory?”

Yoda’s ears lowered. “All those who remain who are Jedi. All those who remain with the potential to be Jedi.”

Everyone. Stars. “Leia,” Luke whispered.

“Well, she is,” Yoda reassured him. “Shielded her, I did. Felt it, she still did, as strong you both are.”

“But not to the same extent,” Luke guessed. He would have received a call, otherwise, from Leia, Han, or both.

“No.” Yoda shook his head. “Pragmatic I am, but heartless I am not. Torture, she has already faced. No more of a burden should she bear.”

Given how much Leia avoided her Jedi heritage, Luke could only be grateful for that. Anything reminiscent of Darth Vader would not have encouraged her to accept that part of herself.

Now that he knew his sister was safe, Luke could focus on what else Yoda had said. “There are other Jedi.” Yoda nodded. “Where?”

“Good at hiding, all of my surviving students are,” Yoda replied. “When you need them, appear, they will.”

Luke felt part of the weight on his shoulders vanish. He hadn’t quite recognized how heavy it had been until it was gone. “I don’t have to do this alone.”

Yoda reached out and patted his arm. “Foolish Padawan. Alone, you never were. Listen, now. Much I have to tell you, and carry it with you into waking, you must.”

 

*          *          *          *

 

DeSoto stared down at the missive on her work station. “You have to be joking.”

Marcell winced and shifted in place. “I’m afraid not, ma’am. At least not according to Wistori.”

DeSoto pursed her lips, mentally calculating how long she could sit on this before it became necessary to tell the head of Alliance Intelligence that one of their operating teams had technically gone AWOL. “Tell Wistori that this is the only copy of this message to make,” she said.

“I already did.”

DeSoto looked up at Marcell. The young commander was biting back a smile. “Right. Now I remember why I promoted you,” she said.

“Ma’am,” Marcell replied, and straightened to proper form before turning and leaving the room without a salute. It was just as well; DeSoto didn’t like to encourage saluting among Intelligence operatives, anyway.

When her comm chimed, she answered it without looking up. “DeSoto.”

DeSoto winced when a high-pitched whine answered her, followed by growled swearing. “Fucking damned worthless hack son of a kriffing—”

DeSoto dropped the missive and stared at her comm. Voice only, and now that she was paying attention, the signal was under one of the heaviest encryptions she could get. Definitely not a legal one, no matter which side of the war you were on, but needs must.

“Naasade,” she said, when she knew she could speak without shouting at him. “Good to hear from you. You have a report?”

“I’ve got a report you won’t want to hear, and…and fuck, I need help. This is a hell of a lot more than I bargained for,” he replied. There was another burst of feedback as the encryption did its job. “I’ve got less than two minutes, so don’t interrupt, all right?”

DeSoto felt her eyebrows try to climb into her hairline during the brief recitation. “Naasade, the man is _dead_. I’ll grant you that those Adepts don’t sound like fun, but I’ve seen the deposition Skywalker gave to Command after the first Death Star.”

There was a brief pause. “Mouse,” he said in a subdued voice. “I know my General.”

DeSoto rubbed her eyes. Dammit. Either one of her best infiltration agents had cracked, Skywalker had been mistaken, or there was weird Jedi shit at play. Any of them were possible, but she’d lay damned good odds on it not being the first option.

“It’s a Deep Core run,” she said, while considering their location. They were stationed just off one of the primary hyperspace routes into the Core. “The soonest I can have someone out to you is two days, maybe three, unless I find someone closer to your location.” If the battle group had stationed themselves anywhere else… “Can you avoid trouble until then?”

“No,” he replied immediately. “I’ve got to move now, or they’ll fucking kill him, and then there won’t be a damned point.”

DeSoto bit back an angry retort. Naasade was the man on the ground. “Fine. Can you avoid being caught?”

“Hey, come on, Mouse. I’m nobody,” Naasade said, and cut the comm.

She took a moment to compose herself, shifting through plans on the fly. Tano’s team had the worst damned timing. If they hadn’t chosen to go AWOL over Lothal, DeSoto would send them, no matter Naasade’s wishes on the matter. Instead, she had three Sith and no remaining agents capable of going up against them. She was not sending any of her people out to fight Sith, no matter what Madine had to say on the matter. He hadn’t seen the scary bastards up close.

DeSoto had her hand on the intercom when she received a visitor. “Send me Sky…walker,” she trailed off, as recognition filtered in. “Never mind.”

The commander—the _Jedi_ , she reminded herself—smiled at her. The expression would have been sweet, charming, maybe a touch bashful, if the man didn’t look like he’d recently been trampled in a stampede.

“I’m guessing that you would be Mouse,” Skywalker said.

“And I’m guessing that you’re here in response to the conversation I just had with one of my operatives,” DeSoto replied, unsettled by the timing. “All right, come into my office. I need your help.”

Skywalker’s smile turned wry. “You’re very accepting, ma’am. Most of the people I know wouldn’t have made that assumption.”

“I’m an old soldier. I don’t turn up my nose when the gods decide to hand me a solution to my problems.” DeSoto sighed and tried to give the man a decent attempt at a smile. “I fought in the Clone Wars with Jedi, Commander. You either got used to the insanity that followed them, or you transferred out and hoped for a quiet assignment.”

“I understand.” Skywalker sat down in the lone chair parked in front of her desk. The lack of blaster was strange on someone she knew wasn’t a civilian, but the lightsaber’s silver hilt stood out in such sharp relief that it almost made up it. “The Rogues feel the same way.”

“And how does Rogue Squadron feel about your military retirement?” DeSoto asked, curious.

Skywalker lifted one shoulder in a brief shrug. “They know that if they ask, I’ll be there for them, and Commander Antilles was crazy enough to follow along after me for years. He’ll keep them in line.”

DeSoto’s lip twitched. Keeping the Rogues in line was becoming a euphemism for staying out of their way. The Alliance got better results; the Imperials developed a fresh limp every time the fighter squad went out as long as they didn’t suffer under too much oversight.

“Would they follow you into the Deep Core to an unknown Imperial base to rescue one of my operatives, and…and possibly one other?” DeSoto asked.

Skywalker’s body language went still and quiet, but his gaze grew more intense. “He’s alive, isn’t he?”

DeSoto bit her lip before answering. “One of my best operatives thinks so, and they knew each other well, back in the old days. You knew?”

Skywalker looked down, studying his clasped hands. “There was a…I felt a disturbance in the Force.”

“I know the saying,” Desoto said gently. “What happened?”

“I heard screaming.” Skywalker’s left fingertips traced over the hard lines of his right hand. “There was so much pain, and there were…people. Calling each other by name.”

Skywalker glanced up to look her in the eyes. “I would be going, regardless. Even if it’s just an echo of something from long ago, it was…I have to know what’s happening.”

DeSoto nodded. “I understand. Get your team together, Jedi Skywalker. I’ll clear the Rogues and whoever else you want for this mission, but you need to be ready to light out of here within six hours.”

Skywalker gave her a pointed look that did nothing to disguise his amusement. “I didn’t think you had the authority to pull a full-scale mission like this without clearing it with one of the generals.”

DeSoto grinned at him. “Commander, I served with Generals Kenobi and Skywalker during the Clone Wars. If there is one thing I learned from those two crazy bastards, it’s that forgiveness is a lot easier to acquire than permission, and is often unnecessary if you go out and do the job right the first time.”

Skywalker’s smile was quiet warmth. “You knew them, huh?”

“Yes.” DeSoto gave it a moment’s thought and decided it was worth it. “If this turns out to be what my agent believes it to be…let me tell you, Commander: Anakin Skywalker was _not_ the crazy half of that pairing.”

His smile widened. “Well. That’ll be different.” He stood up. “Is there anything else I should know?”

DeSoto felt all traces of humor leave her face. “Three Sith Adepts. I don’t know if they will be easier to deal with than Vader, or harder, but you and everyone who flies with you should take care. I want this to be a rescue mission _only_. Don’t bring me any bodies to contend with unless they’re dead Imperials.”

Skywalker nodded and gave her the half-bow of a Jedi. “We’ll do our best, Colonel.”

 

*          *          *          *

 

If there was anything useful about being a commander on base, it was access. Naasade watched the datapad screen and waited. His chest barely moved as he breathed, patient in a way he’d never been able to manage when he was young. Two of the Adepts had used their codes to enter secured areas of the complex, one floor up and three floors down, respectively.

There; the third Adept used a door several corridors over. He couldn’t be certain if they were entering or leaving, or even which Adept it was, but what mattered was that they weren’t in the detention area. None of them were.

_Force, universe, gods, or anyone else listening—please let me pull this off. Let me balance this fucking scale._

Naasade took a long breath, let it out, and stood up. He strode through the lounge for the barracks without stopping, blasters extended. He stunned each of the four unfortunate troopers getting ready for an off-shift before they could question why he was out of his armor.

Useless damned armor, anyway. Couldn’t keep out a direct shot, didn’t protect against a stun weapon, and was usually sized wrong, restricting movement.

Fuck, he missed Phase II builds.

It was a long, nerve-wracking walk down service corridors to get back to the detention area. He didn’t pass anyone but droids, who blatted at him about being in the wrong space. The Adepts never triggered another door alert, but that didn’t mean he was safe.

That was funny. He hadn’t been safe since childhood, and that hadn’t exactly been a lark, either.

He peered out into the main corridor, which was empty. Perfect timing, then. There was a loop of footage already waiting to upload, and after double-checking that no one was about to turn a corner, he activated the feed. The security monitors upstairs would show the same empty space, no matter who walked through it. It wouldn’t last forever before being noticed, but he didn’t need forever. Five minutes would be enough.

Naasade stopped at the closed door, taking a breath and steeling himself. The Adepts hadn’t run the damned Codex in hours, but he didn’t think that meant they’d succeeded.

He opened the door, strode forward, and pulled the knife from Kenobi’s shoulder without stopping to consider what he was doing. Kenobi didn’t make a sound; he just slumped down in an immediate dead faint as the glyphs vanished.

The blade felt _wrong_ in his hand. Naasade dropped it onto the floor in disgust and turned to the medical droid on station. “You. Bacta packs. Now.”

“Of course, Commander,” the droid replied, selecting the requested items. “May I ask what you are doing?”

“We’re leaving.” The stab wound wasn’t as bad as it should have been, which was damned creepy given the length of time the blade had been embedded in flesh.

 _Ignore that_ , Naasade thought, making sure both sides of the wound were sealed. The biggest problem was going to be the damned neural rods.

“My Master will not be pleased,” the medical droid intoned. “I would advise against it.”

“Your Master can go get fucked.” Naasade frowned as he touched the wiring that emerged from the rod’s insertion point on the Jedi’s right arm. “How the hell do I remove these?”

The medical droid made an amused sound. “They are self-grafting. The filaments can be detached, but the rods will not be removed without surgical intervention.”

The disconnect was easy enough, a junction only a few centimeters out. Naasade unhooked every rod on the Jedi’s right side, a nauseating suspicion churning in his gut.

“Why aren’t they running the Codex?”

“I advised my Master that a period of rest was necessary to prevent permanent, fatal damage,” the droid replied.

Naasade glared at the droid. “That fucking blade doesn’t allow for resting.”

If a droid could smirk, this one was definitely doing so. “The lack of Codex was restful enough for our purposes.”

“Right.” Naasade drew his blaster and shot the droid, nailing memory and motivator in a single blast. The second, simpler model of medical droid warbled in alarm. Naasade gave it a moment’s thought before shooting that one, too. The Adepts could program themselves new fucking torture droids.

“You are a mess,” Naasade told the Jedi, triggering the cuff release for his right arm. The ends of his hair and his clothes were still damp, and his skin was clammy to the touch. They’d probably hosed him down, which was S.O.P. for Imperial interrogations.

Naasade had to pause for a moment, trying to cope with churning nausea. He’d witnessed too damned many of those interrogations over the years.

He had all of the cuffs unlocked except the primary, and all of the rods disconnected except for the one in Kenobi’s left arm, when the door hissed open behind him. “Oh, Commander.” Tiritha’s whispery voice filled the room with the harsh rustle of a thousand vipers. “I was so hoping that it would not be you I found here.”

“Yeah.” Naasade felt his shoulders tense up. Having the Adept at his back was one of the least pleasant sensations he’d ever felt. “I’m actually kind of glad to be disappointing you.”

His odds of survival had just dropped from around thirty percent to zero. Not entirely unexpected, but for a minute there, he thought he’d make it.

Naasade waited until he heard the first scuff of her boot on the floor and reacted. With his left hand, he began the cycle that would disengage the primary cuff. With his right hand, he pulled his blaster and had it up in the air as he turned.

He did better than he thought he would. He got three shots off, one of them close enough to the Adept to burn the bare skin of her shoulder. Then an invisible hand grasped him, squeezed hard enough to make his ribs threaten to give out, and slammed him to the floor.

Naasade wheezed, trying to get a breath as sparks danced in front of his eyes. Then Tiritha was on top of him, wide smile of vicious delight on her face. First blaster was gone, struck from his hand. Second blaster—she was sitting on it, blocking access. He swung at her bare-fisted. Tiritha laughed, easily dodging the blow, before hitting him with an open-handed slap. It was powerful enough to rock his head back. The second one broke his nose with a white-hot flare of pain and sent blood flying.

Tiritha rested her hands on his chest. Cold seeped out beneath her fingers, making it even harder to breathe. “You were going to steal our toy?” she chided him. “How very impolite of you. We were not yet finished with it.”

“Go to hell,” Naasade growled back.

Tiritha placed her hands around his throat. It was not just cold beneath her hands, but compression—airway cut off, blood flow blocked. He tried to shove her away, but couldn’t get enough leverage.

“I want to see how long it takes for the light to leave your eyes,” Tiritha cooed. His blood was roaring in his ears, his heart thundering in anger at the sudden lack of oxygen. “It’s always fascinating. Everyone is different, you see—”

Whatever she was going to say was lost as the Adept was swept off of him in a blur of motion. Naasade coughed, gasped, and gagged, so close to retching that he could taste bile in his throat. _The hell?_

He got himself up on his elbow, still coughing. Tiritha was flat on her back on the floor, howling out gutteral words in a language Naasade didn’t know as she grappled with her attacker. The Jedi was on top of her, strands of hair hanging down to cover his face. Tiritha was struggling to keep him from pushing a knife closer to her vulnerable face.

Naasade used the wall to pull himself upright, just in time to watch Kenobi win the battle and plunge the black-handled knife straight through Tiritha’s eye socket. He flinched when he heard the grind of metal striking duracrete. Just as before, the horrible green glyphs crawled out of the wound, spreading on her skin and clothes. Tiritha’s face was frozen in a rictus grin. Her one remaining eye was open wide, filled with recognition of her impending death.

No—not a corpse. Naasade felt his stomach turn over when he realized that Tiritha was still breathing, in spite of the fatal wound.

Kenobi slumped back, scooting away from her until he was resting against the upright table. He was panting for breath, his hands shaking and white-knuckled as he stared at the glyph-marked Adept. Blood was starting to stain his left arm, but Naasade couldn’t see where it was coming from.

The only thing that reminded him to move was his chrono, chiming the four-minute mark. “Shit. Kenobi.” Naasade had to swallow back bile and moisture, hoping to get his voice to something louder than a dry rasp. “Kenobi!”

Naasade gritted his teeth when there was no response. “Dammit, Obi-Wan!” he shouted.

Kenobi’s head jerked back. He blinked a few times before slowly turning to stare at Naasade. If the Adepts had been trying for rage, Naasade suspected that Kenobi had just used up all of it on Tiritha. His eyes were wide and bleach-washed, and blood was drying in the stubble on his face. He looked like a wartime poster child for post-traumatic stress, hollowed out and raw.

Then the wildness started to fade from his eyes as his breathing slowed. His hands were still shaking, but hells, Naasade’s were, too.

Kenobi said a word, but what came out was cracked and unintelligible. He swallowed, licked dry, cracked lips, and tried again. “Cody?”

Cody smiled, his amusement coming out as a puff of silent laughter. “Sir.”

“I…I didn’t—I wasn’t sure if it was you.” Kenobi glanced at Tiritha. “But no one—no one deserves that.” He hesitated. “Well. Perhaps some do.”

That was brutal, for a Jedi, but the Sieges had been bad for that, too. “We have to go, sir.”

Kenobi smiled back at him. “Not…not your General. Not for…for a long time.”

Cody just shrugged. “Still my General,” he said, climbing to his feet.

“I, uh.” Obi-Wan’s face went taut with pain. “I can’t actually…I can’t stand up.”

There was a dying woman on the floor. Both of them were blood-spattered. They were both supposed to be _dead_ …and Cody couldn’t stop smiling about any of it.

“Like it would be the first fucking time I had to carry your ass out of trouble.”

 

 

Sources on the terribleness for those who are curious:

<http://www.chasingthefrog.com/movie-villains/darth-vader/shawscene.jpg>

<http://www.headinjury.com/brainmap.htm>

<http://www.neuroskills.com/brain-injury/parietal-lobes.php>

<http://www.bcftbi.org/about-tbi/behavior.asp>

 

**Author's Note:**

> People have been trying to convince me that this is a venture worth supporting and fighting for. For basic details, you can browse through my tumblr and/or hit this link here: http://deadcatwithaflamethrower.tumblr.com/post/130333721564/you-guys-have-been-so-very-vocal-about-wanting-me


End file.
